


(serpent heart hid) with a flowering face

by orphan_account



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Misunderstandings, Moral Ambiguity, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28526505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Killua Zoldyck.Waterbender, more blood than water. Snow-white hair and swanlike silhouette. Eyes of the sea, but an icy glare. Pale hands covered in crimson, and parchment skin written with scars. The cause of the demise of all Avatars. A convict.Bounty: 100,000 gold pieces. Enough money to last a lifetime, and Gon wants it.Too bad it never crossed his mind that hemightwant the waterbender for himself too. Oh, well.
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 181
Kudos: 194





	1. alea iacta est

**Author's Note:**

> title is from romeo and juliet, william shakespeare! here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7lKZjycY5y1E9JyzMApQUx?si=GXiu__sCSqq8VIwy_ZKVKQ) i made for this fic! enjoy reading!<3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **alea iacta est,** _the die has been cast_

_Flames that burned your skin until it dripped like melting candlewax,_ a poet had once written, _that is love._

Gon is no poet, but he certainly could think of other things to be compared with the poet’s flowery: hunger – which is what he believes to be humanity’s curse. Many stories rang around their village. Stories about how men killed to thwart their hunger – a disease that ripped you apart from inside out, until your bones felt numb in your own skin – and Gon can’t find it in himself to be angry at them. Mito-san tells him that he should be, that what they’re doing is inhumane – but Gon can’t. He can’t. Not when he’s felt their anguish as well. Still feels, actually.

Mito-san is, to simply put it, his moral compass. She tells him what’s right and what’s wrong, what’s human and what’s not. Gon doesn’t always believe in her words, but he loved her for it – loved her faith, and her strength, and her tolerance. If she were up for it, Gon’s sure she could survive any worldly disasters.

But Gon isn’t like that. Mito-san tells him that he’s the most strong-headed person she’s ever met, comparable to an angry flying bull chasing a red cloth – but his fortitude is selective, at best. He’s as impatient as he’s stubborn. Like a flying bull, his aunt’s favorite animal to compare him to. He should be offended, but his Mito-san is an exception to his anger, or his impatience, or his stubbornness. Mito-san is an exception to everything bad about him. In her eyes, he was an angel – hazel eyes that shined like gemstones under the sun, his lips stretched into bright smiles no matter the circumstance, a youthful, boyish charm to his roguish but gentle looks.

That was merely a mask. He wished he was the person his Mito-san thought him to be.

However, he’s not. He’s as selfish as kings, and he’s inspired by his own jealousy, his own anger. By himself. Now, to some, that may sound conceited, but it’s a good thing. If he looked up to anyone else, disappointment would follow him like a determined spirit, endless in their pursuits and forever on their feet, ready to jump on any opportunity that presented itself. He disappointed himself too, of course, but the difference is he knows himself. Humans are sheep-faced wolves, a knife always hidden behind their backs, stabbing so subtly that there’s hardly blood. Slowly, but surely, he’s certain that humans would be the end of their own race, not some elemental force that nonbenders fear in quantity.

Ever since the death of the last Avatar, the number of benders lessened. This paved way for the nonbenders to start their own movement against benders – the Equalist Revolution, they called it. They don’t do much, preaches every now and then, but it’s a dead movement if it ever was. His little village skittered around the west of the Fire Nation – a nation once powerful back in the days when the Avatar was still alive, Mito-san used to tell him. Now, it’s ruled by a Fire Lord enamored with a nameless woman, and three guards obsessed with said Fire Lord. They don’t do much for the nation, only fights when they need to, and Gon doesn’t blame them. It’s hopeless – everything has been ever since the Avatar died.

“…which is why the Earth King is sending out a bounty for Killua Zoldyck,” the bearded man continues to ramble on, and Gon snaps back to the real world, suddenly remembering why he’s here, “Killua Zoldyck, son of the Zoldycks, an assassin family that resides in Agna Qel’a. They’re waterbenders, the lot of them, and bloodbending is their way of killing. They got no need for a full moon, learned how to use it anytime, anywhere. Dangerous folks, they are.”

A shiver involuntarily racks through his back at the man’s words. He’s heard of them – the Zoldycks – and their deadly ability. The heir, Killua Zoldyck, is said to be the one who killed the last Avatar, and the only reason he and his whole family aren’t detained in bars is their guarded globe, purely made of indestructible ice, and their fierce wolf that’s known to eat intruders. Not even the Chief of the Northern Water Tribe could get in, nearly killed himself in the process.

No one dared to try to enter the Zoldyck residence after that.

“The reward is a 100,000 gold pieces,” the man smiles at the crowd’s whoops, “But remember that this is no child’s play. By participating in this hunt, you’re putting your life on the line. The Zoldycks… They’re dangerous. They may appear to be harmless – all simple and pretty, they are – but they’ve killed more than you could fathom. They’ve killed, and they _will_ kill. No matter what,” the man pauses, a laugh high in his throat, shaking his head, “Merciless. The Zoldycks are a pack of animals. Must be why they’re still in their forsaken ice cube.”

It’s angry, the way the man said it, but a mournful glint shines in his teary eyes, and Gon knows this man has lost someone to the hands of a Zoldyck. Gon grunts, his chest clenching, a sudden anger erupting through him. The only reason they’re all here in the first place, starved and desperate, is because of those Zoldycks, who makes their money by killing, going against every teaching, every value that many nations had once treasured. Now, while they were lounging in their ice palace, munching on some fancy, tasteless snow desserts, people like _him_ are left eating the scraps and succumbing to violence to live. He clenches his fist, chewed nails shaping bloody crescents in his palms.

“Avenge our land,” he looks at the crowd, his toothy smile seeming so out-of-place in a crowd of bloodlust, “Treat the Zoldycks like the animals they are. Treat them the way they treated those that they killed.”

In a red haze, Gon shouts along with the crowd.

He _will_ capture Killua Zoldyck, even if it would be the end of him. He won’t stop until he sees that Zoldyck in chains, beaten and bloody and bruised.

He cracks one of his fingers in his grip, and the pain hardly besets him, a sole thought ringing repeatedly in his head. _No matter what._

“Are you alright, man?” a voice breaks the reverie of his thoughts like fragile glass, “You seemed out of it for a moment.”

His eyes rake over the man, brow raising in wonderment. The man has a lean figure, broad shoulders encased in a reddish-pink short coat, a white shirt underneath it, and loose trousers over his legs. His eyebrows, a feature that has caught Gon’s attention almost laughably, are thick in width, the ends wiggling in an odd, curvy sort of way. The man sports a friendly smile, and that’s all it takes to get Gon in his good spirits. He mirrors the man’s smile, cheeks balling up as he smiles, waving.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine!” he says, brushing his hand against the back of his neck sheepishly, “I guess I just got caught up in thinking of ways to infiltrate the Zoldycks’ home.”

“Ah,” the man says, “I see you’re joining the hunt too,” he smiles, one full of mischief, but it fades into a frown, eyes digging deep into Gon’s, burying his hands into his pockets, “But, see, young man, I think you’re hardly fit to join the hunt for the Killua Zoldyck. That man can make you kill yourself – with bloodbending and all that – and you look like you haven’t eaten in years. All frail and bones. You’re not even going to last a day, young man,” Gon frowns, and the desire to leave this man talking to himself has never been greater, but he stays still, breathing in deep, “But you have potential. Potential that can be you used to your own advantage. Say, are you a firebender? Or a bender of any sorts?”

He brings his palm out, a tiny flame bursting in a crackle. Gon chuckles at the man’s amazed expression, eyes shining as if he’d seen mounds of gold himself.

“An advantage!” he exclaims, marveling over the tiny sprout of flame in his palm, little flakes of fire crackling against the man’s cheeks, small enough to be unnoticeable, “Of course, you can’t burn off the ice palace with mere fire, but it is an advantage against ice. Not water exactly, but ice. I’m certain there’ll be obstacles in the Zoldyck estate that are purely of ice,” the man hums thoughtfully, and Gon grins at the man’s enthusiasm, “Still, you’re no match against the Zoldyck. In physical strength, at least.”

Gon sighs, his hands closing in into a fist, the flame ceasing. The man, as much as he hated to admit it, was right. Physically, he would crumble under the strength of the Zoldyck in less than a matter of seconds, and especially if he continues on to live like this through the journey – eating scraps, hardly a wink of sleep, overworking. He inhales, tries to calm his racing thoughts, as he looks down on the musty ground, trying to come to a conclusion. Before he travels to the Northern Water Tribe – which would require much more materials than he could afford – he would need to undergo a training first, enough to prepare him to go against the Zoldyck.

He looks up with a determined glare. “I’ll train then!” he bursts out, “I’ll train and train and train until I’m strong enough to capture the Zoldyck! You’ll see, stranger, I’ll be the one taking him to the Earth King! I’ll do it,” he pauses, the corner of his lips quirking into a tiny smirk, the fire burning through him as he continues to talk, the flames fueling his words, and he can almost taste ashes as he speaks, “I swear I’ll capture Killua Zoldyck. Even if it would cause me my life.”

“That determination is another advantage of yours, young man,” the man says, smiling fondly, clapping his shoulder, “The name’s Zepile, by the way. What’s yours? Sort of tired of referring to you as _young man._ Makes me sound like some old, advice-giving crook.”

Gon laughs, and it’s for the first time in months – he’s forgotten the wondrous act of laughing, a medicine in its own right, rippling through you like waves of an ocean, lets you forget the world, even just for a fraction of a moment. He hears the faint echoes of Zepile’s laughter mixing in with his own, and it’s wonderful – to be so lost in a moment, in words, that you forget whatever it is that plagues you. Gon wishes he could live in this moment, any moment like this, and drown in it in its entirety. Laughter is a sound Gon wishes to never stop hearing.

But, alas, time is a cruel master, and it never listens to anyone’s wishes. Their laughter dies down, heaving breaths taking in its place.

“I’m Gon,” he introduces, clearing his throat, “Hey, Zepile, would you want to join me? In capturing the Zoldyck? I mean, that is if you don’t mind sharing the rewards. I’m sure 50,000 gold pieces should be enough for the both of us! If not…” he pauses, taking a moment to think of this considerable matter, then his eyes shine bright in understanding, words coming out of his mouth like unrestrained bullets, never allowing Zepile to speak through, “Well, if not, we can just request the Earth King for some more! Surely, he has enough gold pieces to last, at least, a hundred lifetimes. It won’t hurt to share, and especially if we carry the cause of our world’s doom in our arms!”

“Calm down, Gon,” Zepile says, laughter clear in his voice, “I was actually gonna suggest teaming up, but I’m glad you did! I may not be a bender, but even I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Gon’s eyes widen in excitement, jumping around Zepile like an hyperenergetic child. “Ooh, ooh, ooh!” he exclaims, “What is it? What is it?”

“Spirits, you really are like a child, aren’t you?” Zepile laughs, ruffling Gon’s wild hair, then leans down, his voice hushing to a whisper, “I’m a con artist, and that’ll come in handy, especially when we’re in need of supplies.”

“ _A_ con artist?” his eyes widen in disbelief, incredulity ringing heavy in his voice, “That’s amazing! Would you teach me some handy tricks? I’ve always wondered how con artists maneuvered. One fooled my aunt, Mito-san, who made her think that he was a government official and a tax collector! Mito-san was so angry when she found out,” Gon chuckles as the memory paints itself in his mind, nostalgia washing over him, the memory seeming so long ago, “I have no personal vendetta against con artists, though, so don’t worry. I know that other people have to go through lengths to feed themselves and those around them.”

That coaxes a smile out of Zepile, warm and appreciative. “You’re a good man, Gon,” he says simply.

Gon knows that’s a lie, even if Zepile didn’t mean it as such, because there was nothing good about him – he was all parts rotten, and underneath his skin is a soul crumbling to dust, desperately clinging on to the last remnants of his sanity. He shakes his head, wills the dark thoughts to fade from his mind, plasters on a masked smile in front of Zepile. Despite having just met him, he knows Zepile’s heart is pure in a subtle, unseen sort of way. Zepile may have been a trickster, fooling foolish people to bend to his whims, but he knows there’s something good deep down there.

“Not good,” he says, shaking his head, “Just understanding.”

“And it takes someone good to be understanding,” Zepile says, and Gon can feel the protest itching to leave his throat, “Personally, I think being good pasts the want to adhere by the rules of this stuck-up society of ours. Being good, at least for me, is willingly putting yourself down to lift others up.”

Gon scrunches his nose, a smile blooming in his lips. “Didn’t take you for a philanthropist, Zep,” the nickname sounds natural leaving his lips, and Gon smiles, knowing that an easygoing friendship is to be formed between them – and Gon hadn’t had a friend in so long, he almost forgot the freeing rush whenever he stuck around a friend, “But I guess that _is_ one of the pros of being a con artist. Always a room for surprise, you know.”

Zepile rolls his eyes, brings his hand up to mess Gon’s hair teasingly – Gon notices he has a penchant to do that. “Best pro of being a con artist, if you ask me,” he says, then the lightheartedness shining in his eyes vanishes with the swirl of the winds, “Should we travel to the Earth Kingdom? In Omashu, maybe? We could gather some needed supplies there – whatever they are. Or maybe in the capital, directly where the king is. Gaoling would be good too – lots of underground fighting arenas for benders.”

“Oh, I was thinking I could say goodbye to my aunt before we leave,” Gon says, chest clenching at the prospect of leaving Mito-san alone, “It should only take a short while. Then we could decide where to go next.”

Zepile stills, quickly picking up the bleakness underlaying Gon’s neutral tone. “Of course,” he says softly, a gentle smile on his face, “It’s not a problem.”

Gon’s chest heaves with a relieved sigh, grateful. “Thanks,” he says shortly, walking back to their small hut, gesturing Zepile to follow along, “You’ll love Mito-san. She’s the kindest soul you’ll ever meet.”

“I’m sure,” Zepile says, humming a forgotten tune from his younger days, his hands in his pockets, “You’ve got some nerve, kid,” he blurts out after a few moments of silence, “When I was in your age, I was just some pathetic thief. Couldn’t bring myself to do anything else, you know, until I met a friend,” Zepile pauses, breathing in, a whist of untold memories shimmering in the black of his eyes, and he turns to Gon, “Yet here you are – putting your life on the line to bring justice to this world.”

Zepile’s tone of blatant admiration coaxes a red hue on Gon’s cheeks, ducking his head in embarrassment. He wasn’t deserving of it, no, but Zepile’s words warmed his heart more than he cared to admit. What he’s doing isn’t as admirable as Zepile thinks, nor is it as selfless as it may seem. He isn’t trying to capture the Zoldyck merely to correct the wrongs of their world – that may be a part of his reasons, but it isn’t what drives him. The money – which would greatly help him and Mito-san – is another reason, but that’s not it either.

It’s hunger. Hunger for something else, something nameless. Maybe, it’s for blood – to feel the crimson paint on his own bony hands, to be the cause of anguish on another man’s face, to wrap his fingers around someone else’s throat, stealing their breath until they’re left as a mere boneless pile on the cold floor. But that’s not it. He isn’t bloodthirsty, not exactly. He isn’t cruel unless the situation calls for it, and he wouldn’t take another life for no reason. It isn’t bloodlust that drives him.

Gon stops in his steps.

 _Curiosity,_ he realizes in a random thought.

He’s curious about the Zoldyck, about his bloodbending, about his impassivity. His hands itch to burn, to burn something poisonous, something rotten, something deserving – and the Zoldyck is nothing but that. A thorn hidden under the guise of a red rose, a snowflake sharp enough to prick thick skin, a beauty but a beast. He’s heard of the Zoldyck’s maddening beauty, and his inhumane bending, and his uncaring, robot-like stances – and he aches to see it for himself. He’s angered by it all, of course, by the drought that the Zoldyck has brought upon them, but a mindless curiosity, an instinctual ache to have the Zoldyck standing before him, standing in all his careful glory, showing him the claws underneath, the bloodstains on his white clothes – Gon _wants_ that. Gon wants to see how much he could take from the Zoldyck, and how much the Zoldyck could take from him. Wild flames would sear through the Zoldyck’s pale skin until it burned to crisp, and sharp icicles would be stabbed right through his bones until it became a part of him. How much could they take from each other?

His soul burned in want.

“…Gon, are you alright?” Zepile’s voice cracks through his monologue, the world suddenly moving again, “Your eyes… Your eyes were…”

“Oh! Uh, sorry, my eyes tend to do that,” he says, hand scratching the back of his neck in sheepish movements, his physicality a stark contrast to the web of his twisted thoughts, a rotting apple covered in bright gold paint, “Mito-san said that my eyes – at least, whenever it does that – nearly blinds whatever it gazes at. It was all in good nature, though, and you won’t be burned! Don’t worry, Zepile-san!”

Zepile crinkles his nose in disgust. “Don’t call me that!” he exclaims, and Gon can’t help but burst into a fit of giggles at the look in Zepile’s face, “I may be older than you but I’m not _that_ old!”

“Sorry, Zepile-san!” he says, just to tease, and before Zepile could voice another outburst, the familiar hue and shape of their hut makes its way in his peripheral, “Oh, look, there’s the hut!” he drags Zepile along with him, the smell of cooking sending him running on his feet – a good hunt is rare but the smells from the hut seems to prove otherwise, “Do you smell that? It smells so good! Let’s go, Zepile!”

Zepile sputters, trying to match his pace with Gon’s, inspired by the smell of boiled clams and smoked sea slugs.

They reach the door, and Gon opens it with such vigor that Zepile fears it would collapse the second it opened. Gon lets go of Zepile’s hand to come searching for Mito-san – who’s most probably cooking in the kitchen, the smell of delicious dishes apparent in the air. He runs to the kitchen, an excited smile on his face as walks towards Mito-san, pulling her into an embrace.

“Gon!” Mito-san exclaims in surprise, giggling happily, “What’s got you in such a mood? Did you catch a komodo chicken or what?”

“Nope!” Gon all but shouts, grimacing when Mito-san scolds him for the volume of his voice, “Sorry, Mito-san, but I’m just so excited! You need to meet someone!”

Mito-san’s brows raised in curiosity, hurrying to prepare the dishes. “Oh, really?” she asks in surprise, hurriedly preparing the plates, “That’s great, Gon. Would you help me put the plates on the table?”

Gon nods. “Of course, Mito-san!” he says as he takes the plates from Mito-san’s hands, nearly running to the wooden table, Mito-san’s warnings of caution in the hut lost in his ears through his excitement. He places the three plates on the wooden table, each plate echoing in sound at his own force. He smiles apologetically when Mito-san turns to glare at him.

“Zepile, over here!” he shouts, waving his arms to catch Zepile’s attention, “We’re about to eat, come on!”

Zepile walks to the wooden table in reluctant steps, smiling hesitantly at Mito-san. Gon nearly giggles, the shyness so unfamiliar with a man like Zepile.

“Hello, there,” Mito-san greets, placing down bowls of smoked sea slugs and boiled clams down the table, taking a seat near Gon, “You must be the one Gon wanted to introduce to me.”

Zepile nods, hesitantly taking a seat.

“No need to be so nervous!” Gon says, breaking the ice in the atmosphere, “Mito-san doesn’t bite!”

Zepile laughs. “Of course!” he says, and all hesitance from Zepile washes away, “I’m Zepile, by the way! It’s nice meeting you, ma’am.”

“Yes, you too, Zepile-san,” Mito-san smiles, tilting her head in confusion at Zepile’s souring expression, “Did I say something wrong?”

“Nope,” Gon says, his smile all too bright, “Zepile just hates it when someone calls him that. Says it makes him feel very old, older than he actually is!”

Mito-san nods in understanding. “Oh, of course,” she turns to Zepile, smiling kindly at him, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Zepile. Let’s dig in, shall we?”

Two eager responses from the two, and Mito-san chuckles heartily. They eat in silence, the sounds of eating the only sound they heard, the silence too comfortable to break. Gon continuously stuffs food into his mouth, his head lost in a flurry of thoughts as he looks at Mito-san, wondering how he should break the news to her. The hunt for the Zoldyck wouldn’t be accomplished overnight – at best, it would take a few months, maybe even a few years if they included the duration for his training – and success isn’t guaranteed. This was a careless roll of the dice, a gamble.

He’s certain Mito-san won’t be too happy about this.

“Mito-san,” he says, hesitance in his voice, clearing his throat in nervousness, “I need to tell you something.”

Mito-san frowns, staring at him. “What is it?” she asks slowly, trying to discern the tone under Gon’s words.

“I…” Gon hesitates, sharing a pointed look with Zepile, “I’ve decided to join the hunt for Killua Zoldyck!” he says in a rush, the words nearly blending into each other, wincing under Mito-san’s sharp gaze, “…and I went here to say goodbye, Mito-san. How long the hunt would take – if it even will, that is… It’s not certain. So I don’t know how long it would take me before I could go back here.”

To his surprise, Mito-san is calm. Eerily calm, almost.

“I see,” she says, simple, “You’ll be okay down the road?”

He didn’t expect such reaction from Mito-san, but it pleases him all the same, relieved that she’s still calm. “Yeah!” he exclaims happily, “Zepile will be with me!”

“That’s good,” she sighs, staring pointedly at both of them, “Take care of each other. Sometimes, the journey is even more dangerous than the destination. To the Northern Water Tribe, no?”

He nods.

“Ah, it’s not easy to get in,” Mito-san warns, and Gon is baffled, wondering how she knows all this, “They don’t trust intruders, especially if they have no reason to visit the capital. It’s been like this ever since the death of the last Avatar. On your way there, think of reasons why your presence is needed there – lie if you have to. If your reason isn’t a valid one, they’ll drown you in the sea,” Gon freezes up, never expecting such dire consequences from such a trivial thing, “A seal would greatly help. Noble families are in abundance of them – the Nostrades, the Zoldycks, and all the like. But you could request one from the Earth King, or any ruler in the Earth Kingdom. The process is quite tedious, but the results would greatly benefit the both of you. I suggest you go to Omashu for that. Ba Sing Se is too crowded at this time of the year, and it’s likely your request won’t even be processed.”

Gon nods, trying to store the information in his head, still left in confusion at his aunt’s extensive knowledge of the world and its rules. Mito-san did live when the Avatar was still alive, and maybe traveling back then was more accessible than it is now.

“Where are you heading first?” Mito-san asks.

“Oh, we were planning to go to Gaoling first – where we could find decent trainers to prepare Gon – but I think Omashu would be the smarter choice,” Zepile answers, humming thoughtfully, “We could request for a seal, and then go to Gaoling. It would probably only take a few months to get the seal approved.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” Mito-san says, nodding in approval, “There’s actually this woman I know in Gaoling. She isn’t selective with who she trains, not really – not when the numbers of benders are decreasing day by day. Biscuit Krueger is her name. You should be able to find her just by asking the locals around,” she looks at Gon, smiles softly, “She’ll agree to train you, of course, but she’ll still need some convincing. She’s an earthbender, but she’s quite knowledgeable in the other areas of bending.”

“She’ll also be able to provide you a place to stay so none of you need to worry about that,” Mito-san says, “It won’t be easy. The Zoldycks, especially their son. Be smart and don’t play bravery – run when you need to,” she looks at Gon, tilting her head pointedly, “Your pride or dignity isn’t a part of the question of life and death. If you’re undermatched, or in danger, don’t try to persevere through just to prove your pride. Think thoroughly through everything.”

“Yes, Mito-san,” Gon says, nodding eagerly, his mouth uncomfortably dry, “How do you know all this, Mito-san? I’ve never heard you talking about it.”

“I was once an adventurer, Gon,” Mito-san says, a sadness in her expression as she says those words, quickly replaced by a smile, “Now, let’s go back to eating! We wouldn’t want the food to go cold, after all!”

Then, moments that felt like hours soon began to fade into each other, and Gon is left wondering what his aunt’s life was like before the demise of the last Avatar, itching to ask her about her adventures, about the places she’s visited, and the people she’s met, but he wouldn’t want to bring up memories that Mito-san purposely buried down. He swallows down his questions, eagerly waits until everyone has finished eating.

He gulps when they all stand from the table. Silently, he and Zepile walk to the door with Mito-san slowly trailing after them.

The words of goodbye hang on tip of his tongue when, suddenly, Mito-san crushes him in a tight embrace, his eyes tearing up when he feels the wet remnants of Mito-san’s tears staining his shirt. His chest clenches in a painful tug, holding Mito-san as tightly as he could, wishing this wouldn’t be the last time they’d be able to see each other.

“Take care there, Gon,” Mito-san whispers, voice rough from crying, “Promise me you’ll catch Killua Zoldyck. Promise me you’ll avenge the Avatar, Gon. _Promise_ me.”

“I promise, Mito-san, with all my heart,” he nearly shivers from the urgency in Mito-san’s tone, gulping, “I won’t come home until I fulfilled my promise. And, when I _do_ come home, we’ll be able to buy our own land with the gold pieces, and then have our own farm, and all that! You’ll see, Mito-san, I’ll make you proud!”

Mito-san pulls away, puts her hands on Gon’s shoulders, smiling tearily. “You already have, Gon,” she says, voice muddled with tears, “I’ll miss you.”

“Me too, Mito-san,” Gon says, “I swear I’ll always write to you.”

“Good,” Mito-san says, sighing as she pulls away, sharing a short glance with Zepile, “You two better be off. You both do know how to get to Omashu, right?”

“Yes,” Zepile nods, “My friend – who’ll be coming with us – already has tickets. Thank you for the food and the concern, ma’am.”

Gon waves his goodbye to Mito-san one last time before he turns and walks with Zepile, urging himself not to look back. Looking back won’t do any good for him. All he could do is be determined in his pursuits and come home with the sack of coins, enough for him and Mito-san to live the life they’ve always wanted. He looks down the road with a firm, determination burning in his eyes.

“Oh, Zepile, who’s the friend that you mentioned?” Gon asks, hands in his pockets.

“He’s a waterbender and mighty good at healing,” Zepile says, “He actually tended to one of my injuries – which is how we met. He’ll be useful around the road, really, in case of any injuries and whatnot. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not!” Gon answers chirpily, eyes into crescents as he smiles, “The more the merrier, after all!”

He and Zepile walk through town to the port, salt air and small waves. There, he meets Leorio Paladiknight, a tall, lanky man with too much energy stored in one body, small glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose, dressed in a short-sleeved blue robe and dark pants. Three tickets in his hands, greeting Gon with a slap on his back, and the sound of the shore ringing in his ears.

 _This is it_ , he thinks as he walks into the ship, _no more turning back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i was really torn between killua being a waterbender and a firebender - because firebending = lightning, and that's an integral part of killua's powers soooo,,, but then i got won over by the prospect of bloodbending! i thought that'd be a perfect ability for the zoldycks, so here we are!
> 
> just to say, there is no specific timeline here from atla, just a messily combined concepts i borrowed from atla! it's a great show, truly.
> 
> thank u for reading<3!!


	2. audentes fortuna iuvat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **audentes fortuna iuvat,** _fortune favors the bold_

_When you have been too far out in the ocean,_ Gon faintly remembers the lines of Mito-san’s favorite poetry, one she would recite to him whenever he asked, _you will miss the land’s embrace, and you will despise the once-beautiful waves._

Mito-san told him those lines were meant to describe the tragedy of falling out of love with another soul. Gon, in his frank opinion, thinks those lines are better suited for seasickness. Only a week out in the sea, yet Gon feels as though the walls were crushing him in, stomach churning with every bump of the ship. He lived close to the sea, and swam there as much as he could, but he never liked traveling by ship. He felt stuck whenever he did, felt trapped in the wooden walls surrounding him, the sound of the waves crashing against each other echoing in his ears like angry ghosts. Zepile and Leorio have been enjoying the travel, playing cards here and then, and Gon envied them for such reason. He felt as though he was only a few moments away from throwing up.

His head ached with too much thoughts, and he felt too sick to voice out his troubles to Leorio. He adored Leorio – who turned out to be an outspoken, boisterous man, complaints always voiced, and compliments always given – in only a short amount of time, both of them bonding over their bending – his of fire, and Leorio of water. Leorio shortly distracted him from his seasickness, telling him stories of how he and Zepile had met, of how he had ended up in one of the Fire Nation provinces as a waterbender, of how he aimed to lend help as a healer to any of those who needed it – which is the reason for his countless travels. Gon is certain Leorio must’ve stepped in every land there is to step, must’ve sailed through all the oceans of the world, must’ve had a horizon wider than anything else – and, for a quick moment, Gon felt jealousy creeping into his heart.

It’s childish, he knows, this emotion. But, throughout his whole life, he’s been stuck in the same town with the same people – and a part of him aches to go beyond the borders of the Fire Nation, to set sail to the abundant islands of the Earth Kingdom, or to the cold poles of the sister Water Tribes, or to the sacred Air Temples. Gon wanted to travel, to learn, and, once he finishes the hunt, he would – with the sack of money, preferably.

But he should focus on training first. Training, and then capturing Killua Zoldyck.

Then he would travel – with Mito-san if she were up to it.

He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair, kneading his head as he tries to pry the ache in his head away. He winces, his head throbbing with enough pain to split his head into two, gripping on the ends of his hair.

His hands fall to his sides, his head landing against the wall with a thud, a resigned sigh leaving his lips.

“Gon, are you feeling alright?” Leorio asks beside him, putting his hands on Gon’s shoulders when he begins to sway, “You look a little pale.”

“Could you check my head?” Gon says, clenching his eyes close, “It’s been aching since a while ago.”

Leorio mumbles a response, but Gon’s head is too clouded to even try to hear it. He feels Leorio’s hand cradling his head, a sudden surge of calmness rushing through him, the pain in his head ceasing to a nothingness, easily replaced by the soothing feel of soft waves washing over his head, and Gon gets drunk on the feeling, wishing he could save it for himself. He’s lost in a euphoric haze, happily drowning in this ocean of oblivions.

But Leorio pulls his hands away from him, and the moment is stolen away. Gon lets out a little sigh, grateful that the throbbing has ceased – Zepile was right; Leorio _is_ useful, and even if he wasn’t, Gon would still be glad to have him around.

“Thanks, Leorio,” Gon says, leaning against the wall, “Hey, how many weeks more until we arrive in Omashu?”

“What, getting a little seasick?” Leorio teases, ruffling his hair, coaxing a groan out of Gon – he and Zepile, unlucky for him, both had this habit of messing his hair as much as they could, grabbed every chance, and made _everything_ into a chance to do so, “Don’t worry. At our pace, it’ll only take a few more days or so – probably three more before we reach the dock.”

Gon releases a relieved sigh, the heavy weight on his shoulders finally lifted. “Thank spirits,” he lets out, “Don’t get me wrong – I love the ocean, I practically grew up with it, anyways – but ships… There’s just something about it that makes me feel so uneasy. Mito-san suggested that I just might be claustrophobic, but I’m fine with small spaces, really. Ships just make me feel so…” he tries to search for the right word, “…stuck.”

“And closets don’t?” Leorio snorts, smiling sheepishly when Gon pointedly stares at him, “Maybe it’s some trauma response. Your fear –” he rolls his eyes at Gon’s affronted glare, quick to change his words, “– or dislike of ships could be a response to some traumatic events in your childhood. Do you remember any unpleasant memory involving ships when you were a child?”

Gon tilts his head, searching his mind for such memories – it wasn’t entirely impossible, no, as he did grow up near the ocean, nearly visiting the sea any chance he’d get. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were involved in some sort of accident involving ships. He frowns, mind blank when he tries to look through the faded memories of ships. Blank, empty.

“No, I can’t remember any memory involving ships,” Gon says, shrugging, “I’m sure it’s not a big deal. Maybe I just don’t like ships.”

Leorio hums, closing his mouth shut, but Gon knows this won’t be the end of their discussion. Gon lights up when Zepile walks to them, a tray of food – just bland soup and undercooked chicken, but food _is_ food – in his hands. Gon claps his hands happily, taking a plastic bowl in his hands, slurping messily, wincing at the taste – or the lack, thereof.

“What were you guys talking about?” Zepile asks, sipping on his soup slowly, hardly a sip, really, “Both of you seemed pretty serious about it.”

Leorio shrugs, grimacing when he takes a sip of the soup, subtly spilling the bowl of soup into the sea – his attempts sending Zepile and Gon snickering. “What? You would’a done it too,” Leorio says, brows furrowing as he attempts to smell the bowl, nearly gagging at the odd combination of chicken and green mushrooms, “Don’t know why they make food if it tastes like shit,” he looks at Gon distastefully, scrunching his nose when Gon continues to sip the soup, “Gon, how can you slurp that like it’s the best sea slug soup you’ve ever drank?”

“Well, if you pretend it’s a sea slug soup, then it basically _is_ ,” Gon shrugs, continues on mindlessly gobbling the pathetic excuse of a soup, thoughtfully chewing a large piece of chicken in his mouth, most likely undercooked – Zepile and Leorio share a look, disgust clear in their features, “You know that saying – I think therefore I am? Well, just think that this soup is full of sea slugs, _then_ it will be. You won’t even notice the difference.”

“Gon,” Zepile says seriously, “I think they have another word for that. What was it, Leorio?”

Leorio snorts, shaking his head. “Delusion.”

“Now, that’s just mean,” Gon says, pouting childishly, “I think positive thinking is a better term for it.”

“Well, the ‘ _I think, therefore I am’_ phrase doesn’t work like that,” Zepile explains, cautiously taking a sip of the soup, making sure there isn’t any piece of uncooked chicken in it, finally giving in to the unrelenting grumbling of his stomach, “It’s more like a… mental state. Like, if you think you’re amazing, then you’re amazing. But it’s not meant for practicality. Just because you think you’re the Fire Lord, doesn’t mean you are, you get me?”

Gon huffs in protest – Mito-san always said that he never was one for practicality, or logic, or rationality, or any of those sorts, preferring to relay in his instincts instead. Reason won’t always win out in every situation, and at times, it’s better to follow what your inner voice tells you to. Gon was born intuitive, driven only by what he feels, not thinks, and though most people would find a fault in that, he never really saw the flaw in his way of doing. Life isn’t logical, and so why should Gon be? He lived in a mad world masked with method, and if he chose not to pursue a methodical way to his madness – was it really so wrong?

“Why not?” he presses on, petulant, “There’re no rules to how _I_ should interpret the saying. I’m going to use it the way I want to, and I decided to use it on sea slug soups and this tasteless one!” he sticks his tongue out, blowing a raspberry at the two, “You can’t stop me,” he adds, crossing his arms.

“A child,” Zepile deadpans.

“You do know what they say,” Leorio says, snickering, “You can’t argue with logic _with_ children.”

Gon laughs drily, ignoring the looks Zepile and Leorio send him as he continues on to sipping the soup without care for the raw meat sludging in. Growing up, when he and Mito-san were left empty-handed after a desperate hunt, when food was scarce and water was limited, Gon had learned how to cope with an empty stomach, and to be appreciative of every meal placed upon the table – it’s a lesson that he’s ingrained in his soul, a lesson he would take to his grave. He knows the soup is quite… distasteful, to say the least, but it’s certainly better than an aching stomach.

Though, the more he devours of the soup, he’s also quite certain his stomach would ache nonetheless.

“So,” Zepile starts, carelessly throwing off his bowl of soup down the sea, “Once we do arrive in Omashu, apart from the letter we’ll send to King Netero, what else would we need?”

“Food,” Leorio says, “There’s plenty of marketplaces in Omashu, and we should store enough food to last the rest of our trip to Gaoling.”

They fade into silence then, content with listening to the songless melody of the ocean, and the gentle movements of the sea.

Soon, the days begin to fuse within each other like droplets of watercolors on a dry parchment, and all Gon remembers are blurry memories of undercooked soup, freezing nights under the stars, and the calming sounds of the ocean singing.

After countless moments passing, Gon finally finds himself standing on the walkway, only a few steps away from the dock, the squawks of seagulls ringing sharply in his ears, a wake-up call of a sort.

“Well, here we are,” Zepile says, standing beside Gon, looking over the terrene scenery with long trees, bright flowers, and white sands, “We’ll still need to walk a few miles to reach Omashu, but that should only take a few hours.”

Leorio grunts. “Better get going then.”

Gon nods, walking down the gangway, breathing in the fresh smell of raw fishes packed in several stacks carried by passengers aboard, nose wrinkling. He buries his hands in his pants’ pockets, whistling softly as he first steps on the cobbled road, greatly missing the feel of the solid land under his feet. Omashu is only a few miles away from this port, lying on the west, behind the mountains with pointed ends. Like Zepile said, it would only take a few hours walking there, and soon they’ll find themselves before the hefty gates of Omashu, heavily guarded by earthbenders. Gon hopes the situation isn’t alike to the Northern Water Tribe’s, traces of fear suddenly settling in his chest.

He shakes his head. _Doubt kills, fear hinders,_ he reminds himself, holding his head up high, halting in his steps to wait for Leorio and Zepile, taking in the palm trees with long leaves, and the colorful flowers sprouting in dozens, and the pale sand that turns damp when the shore reaches up to kiss it. It’s a dreamy view, so unlike the oceans he’s come across back home – back in the Fire Nation, their beaches consisted of the burning sun trailing on your bare back, dried leaves washed up ashore, and the dark, almost black color of the sand. He reveled in the feeling that came over him, breathing in an air that isn’t of the Fire Nation’s, the soles of his shoes colored with sand so unlikely with Fire Nation beaches. The feeling in his chest is nameless, but it’s liberating. Suddenly, it’s easier to breathe.

He hears the telltale footsteps of Leorio and Zepile, turning around to face them, a wide beam in his face.

“Let’s go!” he exclaims, his excitement expressed in those few syllables, heart pounding as though it would escape his chest – there’s not much reason to be excited, really, but Gon finally, _finally_ has a destination, and a purpose to serve, and he can hardly breathe because who knew this feeling was so exhilarating?

Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second, he lets his breath tremble in his chest, the summer sun is warm on his skin, and he feels the little flame inside his soul spread into a wildfire, body lost in this adrenaline.

This is it – the beginning of _his_ adventure, one that he hopes would soon be told as night tales to sate restless children, and one that he hopes to be a tale of bravery, a tale that ignites a spark in lost souls, a tale akin to the last Avatar’s – which, truth be told, is one of Gon’s favorite pastime stories back when he was young. Perhaps even now.

He opens his eyes, and for a moment, everything’s too bright.

“To the west, then,” Zepile says, and Leorio is already walking past them, mumbling something about their melodrama – he and Zepile share a look, laughter seeping out from their mouths, “Oh, come on now, old man, don’t be so grouchy!” he teases, and it coaxes an incessant growl to leave Leorio’s lips, scowling as he turns briefly to face them.

“Yah!” Leorio bellows, and his anger is almost comical, “Stop calling me old, you bum! I’m just a few years older than you!”

Zepile rolls his eyes, snickering. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Zepile says, patting Leorio’s back, “Let’s not waste any more time and keep going.”

Gon nods. “Zepile’s right,” he says, moving from his position to walk alongside with the two, fiercely glaring at the road before them, “Let’s do this.”

They walked in an unusual silence, hardly any words exchanged between them. Gon assumes it’s because the weight of the hunt was finally laying down on their shoulders, and they were too lost in their own thoughts, wondering how this whole ordeal would unfold. _Would their request be processed and approved? Would they make it to Gaoling? Would Biscuit Krueger agree to train him? Do they even stand a_ chance _against Killua Zoldyck?_ And Gon knows he isn’t the only one worrying.

He likes to stay optimistic, would rather focus on what he could have than what he lost, but there _is_ no chance of optimism with a man like Killua Zoldyck. He needs to be realistic, rational in both his words and actions – as much as he loathes the thought of it. He absolutely abhorred thinking too much – thinking of the process, the possible outcome, and all the like. It would only result in a prolonged headache, and steam blowing off his ears. He shudders, shaking his head in distaste. He has Leorio and Zepile by his side, anyways – they can do the complex, strategic thinking for _him._

But, first, before they could reach that point of their plan, they would need to reach Omashu first.

* * *

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Kurapika grabs the ends of his hair in an unyielding grip, frustration running through his veins, and he tries to control himself, feeling as though, if he were angry enough, he would rip off his own hair from his scalp. He bites his lips, hard enough for blood to seep out of the flesh, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. He lets out a deep exhale, his chest heaving with it, as his hands reluctantly letting go of his own hair, falling numbly to his sides. He squeezes his eyes tight, leaning against the hard rock with a dull thud, his sharp nails leaving little scars on his sweaty palms, traces of blood dripping from his hand.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, the sheen of sweat glistening on his pale skin, “I should have known. I should have known. I should have known,” he repeats the phrase in a maddening haze, muttering and mumbling, “I should have known better than to keep the eyes with me. I should have _known_. Gods, why didn’t I think this through?”

He had been traveling to Omashu with the goal to request for a seal – Meteor Island, an island in the west of the Fire Nation, had been his prior destination, but he quickly forfeited his trip there when he learns that the passage to the island is restricted and requires an official seal from the government. There were rumors that a pair of scarlet eyes were being sold in the island, and Kurapika knows he should hurry – at this very moment as he sits around uselessly in the cave, another customer could be purchasing the scarlet eyes for their own dirty, greedy hands.

At the thought, his vision turns red, and the darkness becomes crimson. The Kurta Clan, something he was once a part of, something that had once existed when the last Avatar maintained peace in the world, was a clan purely of earthbenders, and were famously known for their scarlet eyes which had given them the ability to bend metal. Many grew jealous of their ability of metalbending, and soon the Phantom Troupe, a notorious band of thieves, had slaughtered _his_ clan for the sets of scarlet eyes, left them dead with eyeless sockets. The Phantom Troupe had killed his entire _family_ – the only people he had ever known, the only people he had grown to love, the only people who _loved_ him – merely to slake their own selfish desires, to take what they want without a care for the world, to parade the scarlet eyes around like some _goddamned trophy._

He forces his eyes close, trapping in the tears threatening to fall.

_I should have died along with them._

He straightens his back, harshly wiping away the glassy tears in his eyes with the back of his hand. Crying is meaningless, a pathless point that people turn to when they run out of excuses, and Kurapika will _not_ succumb to any weakness, not if he could help it – it wouldn’t solve anything, nor would it bring back his family. What he _needs_ to do – what his family would want him to do, he hopes – is to collect the remaining pairs of Kurta eyes all over the world, no matter how long that would take him, no matter how much it would cost him.

_It’s the least I could do._

Kurapika stands on his feet, clears his throat as he brushes away the dust from his clothes. To continue to look for the pair of scarlet eyes he has lost on the way here would only prove to be a shot in the dark, a worthless risk that would only waste his time. He can’t afford that – can’t afford to waste time, no, not with his circumstances.

He would just need to forget about it. There was no point in regretting the events that led to this, or reminiscing the moments of when he still had the pair of eyes in his satchel – what’s done has been done, after all. On his way back, maybe, in some moment where the Lady Luck is generous, he would stumble upon the pair of eyes once more, hopefully unsullied – wherever he may have lost it, he hopes it isn’t somewhere _too_ dirty and muddied.

He holds his own hands, intertwining his fingers as he stretches out his arms, the sound of bones cracking clear in his ears. He sets his gaze on the dark tunnel before him, eyes twinkling when he spots a distant beam of light shining from the end of the tunnel, dimly lighting the dark tunnel, and soon he walks in long strides, elated to finally have found a way out of this dark madness. Finally, after stumbling carelessly in the dark, the obscurity of his vision fades away into the sight of the rays of the blinding afternoon sun. He squints his eyes, aching from the all too sudden shift.

Before him stands the long road to Omashu – two earthbenders guarding colossal gates, large boulders hanging above their heads, always ready for an attack, and the dooming, pyramidical shape of Omashu. Kurapika gulps, his throat achingly dry, gripping the strap of his satchel with paling fingers.

With a long exhale, he takes the first step on the borderless road, careful to follow the zig-zag pattern of the road. It feels as though he were walking on a tightrope, bound to fall even by the smallest breath of wind, and it takes all of him to stop staring down his feet, knowing that centering his attention exclusively to his feet would even prove to be riskier. He shakes as he walks, palms overcome with sweat, and he slowly counts in his head, slowly tries to stamp out the flurry of intrusive thoughts forcing themselves into his mind.

 _One, two, three,_ he counts with every step he takes, attentively listening to the sounds of his inhales and exhales, _four, five, six._

His heartbeat slows down to its normal pace, and Kurapika lets out a relieved sigh, wiping the sheen of sweat on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He walks in calm, careful steps, thoughts moving slowly in his mind, and he revels in the newfound peace, his head usually racing with protruding, uncalled-for thoughts – and he’s managed to tame his labyrinth of a mind in a risky road, nonetheless.

His peace, however, is short-lived.

Faster than his mind could process, in the periphery of his vision, a bustling man runs past him – how he did so, Kurapika doesn’t know, especially with the narrowness of the road – and he nearly shrieks when he finds himself nearly falling to the side, his feet dangerously hanging on the edge of the road. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing himself for what was to come – he couldn’t avoid it, and there was no point in trying to, not when he was only a step away from falling to his unavoidable death. Well, at least, he hopes it wouldn’t be – he, after all, would prefer broken bones to a lifeless body.

The inevitable fall doesn’t happen, though.

Kurapika lets out a muffled cry when he finds himself tumbling down on the road.

“Shit, sorry!” he hears, the voice above him frantic, “Gods – fuck – I – shit – wait,” the man mumbles incoherently, stumbling through his words, and Kurapika ignores his urge to push the man off him, “Lemme get up, hold on.”

He opens his eyes, and he finds himself regretting that decision the moment he does it. Above him, a lightly-bearded man hovers, balancing himself on his elbows, and Kurapika finds himself foolishly blushing at his precarious position – with the man’s long arms caging him in, even longer legs twisting with his own. He blinks owlishly at the man, at lost for words.

They stare at each other for a moment too long, and Kurapika’s tolerance snaps.

“What the hell are you staring at?” he spits out, trying to wriggle his way out, “Get the fuck off me, you fucking creep.”

The man’s expression instantly sours at his words, and he, sorely, leans closer. “Who do you think you’re calling a creep, you damn punk?”

Kurapika glares. “Just. Get. Off. Me!” every word is punctuated with a jab of his fingers on the man’s chest. At last, the man relents, standing on his feet only to tower above him, and Kurapika lays on the ground uselessly, throat too dry to be comfortably to swallow, an unrelated fluttering from his stomach. The man was tall, awkwardly so, with a scowl pulling his lips, irritated eyes looking at his – if perhaps they had met in better circumstances, Kurapika would’ve had the time to appreciate the perfect arch of the man’s brows and his ridiculously broad shoulders.

He shakes his head, willing for those thoughts to disappear into an oblivion, quickly getting up on his feet, dusting away the dirt from his clothes. He looks up, displeased to find himself several inches shorter than the man – short enough that he would need to crane his neck to look at the man right in the eye. This automatically gives the man a physical advantage. He grits his teeth at the thought, palms balled up into tight fists.

“Huh, you know what, I don’t think you’re old enough to be travelling alone,” the man utters, and Kurapika _swears_ he could have hit the man right there and then – if it weren’t for painfully long distance between his fist and the man’s irritable face, he would _need_ tiptoe just to reach the man’s neck, “You look awfully young.”

“And you,” Kurapika growls, “You look awfully _old_ ,” that coaxes an offended gasp from the man, and Kurapika only smirks, “How ever did you convince your nursing home to let you out alone the road?” Kurapika snickers, and though he knows his words are a stretch, he revels in the red that spreads in the man’s face like wildfire, “Quite dangerous, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why you, disrespectful little punk –” his words are cut off when another voice joins in the conversation – or what Kurapika thinks to be one, at least.

“Yah, Leorio!” an unfamiliar voice says, and Kurapika turns to the source – a brown-haired man with wiggly brows clad in pink waving his arms around like a fish flapping out of the water, “Stop your bickering with that kid! Gon’s getting impatient!”

Kurapika ignores the way the other man had called him, his curiosity now piqued as he turns back to stare at ‘Leorio.’

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Leorio says, wiping his hands on his shirt, walking right past Kurapika without even sparing him a glance, and _that_ , for some nameless reason, makes his brows furrow, lips in a frown, an unpleasant churning in his chest. He sighs as he stares at the trio, crossing his arms – a young man with spiky hair, the wiggly-browed man, and… _Leorio._

“Come on, Leorio!” the young man exclaims, his volume quite painful, “You know the hunt waits for no one! King Netero won’t either!”

Kurapika’s brows shoot up in interest at the names mentioned. _The hunt, King Netero, Omashu…_ he replays, trying to connect the puzzle pieces together into a distorted conclusion, brows knitted as he stares at the trio, head tilting, and the young man’s hastiness only confirms his suspicions.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _this should be interesting._

* * *

Gon’s shoulders sag with relief when Leorio starts to walk his way to them. After hours of navigating through dark tunnels, arguing tirelessly with one another, and nearly tearing their map into two, Gon had nearly flung himself towards the city in the realization that they have finally arrived. He recalls bumping into a blonde, and he _meant_ to apologize, but he found himself too carried away by the adrenaline coursing through his bones, urging him to run to the gates despite the treacherous road he stood on. The space of the road was wide enough for three people, at least.

“Finally done making out with the pretty boy over there?” Zepile teases, snorting at the blush that bursts in Leorio’s face. Gon could easily tell that it wasn’t a happy nor an embarrassed blush, judging by the way Leorio’s forehead creases and his lips curving into a deep scowl.

“That _pretty boy_ just told me I belong in a nursing home,” Leorio says, briefly turning his head to glare at the blonde, “The last thing I wanna do is make out with him – hell, I’d rather face the Zoldycks five-to-one than to talk to his disrespectful ass again,” he huffs, crossing his arms, “Damn punk.”

“We can argue about him later,” Gon says, impatient, “Could we just please go to Omashu now?”

“We already are in Omashu, Gon,” Leorio says, laughing, “All we need to do is state our reason, and we’ll be good to go.”

He turns to face the two guards, almost embarrassed to realize that they’ve been watching the whole exchange, and hopes that whatever the guards had witnessed wouldn’t cloud their judgment. Zepile had told him that, if the guards were in a foul mood, their chances of entering the city decreased _greatly._ Gon swallows when he turns to look back at Leorio and Zepile, remembering the commotion they had caused down the road – all the falling, and the tumbling, and the shouting. Gon grimaces, turning back to face the guard, a strained smile on his face when he meets their stern gaze.

“State your reason,” the guard stiffly says.

“We’re here to request for a seal,” Zepile says beside him, voice quavering under the heavy gaze of the guards, “…for… for, er, the hunt.”

Something changes within the guards. Their stance loosens, and they drop their guard, the corners of their mouth quirking into a slight smile. One of the guards, the taller of the two, drops down the boulder, a heavy crash nearly sending the road in shambles, and he greets them with a friendly smile, toothy and bright.

“Ah, I see,” the guard says, “King Netero requests for your presence in the palace.”

Gon’s eyes widen, jaw falling slack. “ _REALLY?_ ”

The guard hardly flinches, and Gon commends him for that – in many moments that he could hardly count, Mito-san had scolded him for the sheer volume of his voice, telling him how his voice should be enough to shatter one’s eardrums that blood dripped down their ears. Gon knew Mito-san was exaggerating – she loved to do so, anyways, and especially when he was young – but her words always did make him wonder, make him think for a miniscule of a second before he would let words out of his mouth.

“Yes,” the guard answers, nodding, staring at them, “So, four people?”

Leorio’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, glaring heatedly at the blonde beside them. “Who _the fuck_ said this punk was coming along with us?”

“Calm yourself down, _Leorio_ ,” the blonde says with ease, ignoring Leorio’s indignant protests, “I will show you something, and _then_ you can decide whether or not you want me to come along.”

“Well, you don’t need to show me anything, you little bastard,” Leorio seethes, bending down to grip the front of the blonde’s vest, lifting the blonde off the ground with profound ease, “And it’s Leorio-san to you, you disrespectful –”

“Could you save the name-calling for later and let me down?” and Gon’s certain that the blonde’s composure angers Leorio even more, and he bites the insides of his cheeks – Leorio was always so amusing to watch when he couldn’t control himself, whether in anger, or happiness, or whatnot, “I’ll be useful.”

“How?” Gon asks simply.

Leorio lets out a loud sigh before he lets go of the blonde, crossing his arms as he tilts his head upwards, refusing to spare a glance down the blonde. Gon raises his brows at this, wondering what else they had said to one another to cause such tension to brew between them. The question he itches to ask dies down in his throat when the blonde reveals the chains adorning his hands, several rings on all his fingers. Gon’s eyes widen in surprise, gasping when the blonde quickly, and quite effortlessly, shapes the chains into a dagger atop his knuckles, the sharp end placed against the blonde’s nails.

“You’re…” Gon struggles to find his words – a _rarity_ within itself, “…you’re a metalbender.”

“Indeed,” the blonde says, nodding, “So, what do you think?”

“Consider yourself a part of the club!” Zepile says, heartily tapping the blonde’s shoulders, urging him to stand closer, “You know, quite an ability you’ve got there. _Definitely_ useful to our cause.”

The blonde nods, but he hardly utters a word. Instead, he turns to both Gon and Leorio, a brow arched in question. “And, you two?”

“Of course!” Gon all but bellows, clapping his hands happily, “Your bending is amazing! It’d definitely be a waste if we didn’t let you tag along with us, wouldn’t it, Leorio?” Leorio merely glares at him, huffing, but Gon continues, unperturbed, “And, besides, we need all the help we can get!”

The blonde hums, nodding, but he still seems unsatisfied with any of their answers. He turns to look at Leorio pointedly, the beginning of a scowl apparent on his lips, but it disappears into a thin line before it becomes too noticeable. “And, you…” the blonde hesitates, seeming to taste the words in his mouth before he uttered them, “… _Leorio-san_?”

Leorio’s eyes widen, but he catches himself before anyone could make out his shock. “I guess you’re not too bad,” he acquiesces, arms still crossed, but he’s willing to spare the blonde a quick, fleeting glance, “Turns out you’ve got manners, after all.”

The blonde frowns at that, but he doesn’t comment on it. Rather, a hesitant smile spreads in his face as he pulls his hand out, the dagger bended back into chains.

“I’m Kurapika,” he introduces.

“The name’s Zepile,” he says, shaking Kurapika’s hand, then pointing to Gon, “That’s Gon, and I’m sure you already know who Leorio is.”

“Too well, I’m afraid,” Kurapika mutters under his breath, eyes squinted when he steals a glance at Leorio’s petulant face.

The sound of the gates opening steals away Gon’s attention, and he swiftly turns on his feet, breath stolen when a labyrinthine city stands before his eyes – the beginning, the gateway to the hunt.

He breathes in as he slowly walks into the city. _Another step closer to Killua Zoldyck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont u just love it when leopika<33
> 
> anyways, we should be meeting bisky&co real soon!! ty 4 reading:D!


	3. hic manebimus optime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **hic manebimus optime,** _here we will stay excellently_

_A labyrinthine wonder,_ is all Gon thinks of as they walk into the city of Omashu, the earthen gates bended open by the two guards, jaw slacked as the motley intricacies of the city comes to life right before his eyes, the dimming afternoon light flickering on the city’s long walls – thousands of houses with green tiled roofs constructed upon each other elaborately, a series of linking slides that continues on for miles in the city, and various sorts of mail shifting through earthbending. Gon lets out a bated breath, golden eyes alight in awe, a sudden realization dawning upon him when he looks up to see the green-colored roofs towering above him – in a world like theirs, in a universe full of gleaming stars, he was only a speck of dust, a bothersome little thing, like a pesky ant crawling on someone’s legs.

He stiffens at the thought, stands straighter, tries to make himself look bigger, holds his head higher – he wasn’t born out of nobility, and when you are born without a title, respect must be earned by your own hands. He comes from a small village, nameless to most, and Gon promises to himself to make his name known to every stranger in the streets, and to the head that wears the crown.

“King Netero, you see, isn’t the most practical ruler, and his ways aren’t the most…” the shorter of the two guards – whom they know now as Knov – says, searching for the right word, “…well, practical. It’s been rumored that he’s a direct descendant of King Bumi, and quite frankly, the two have more in common than one may think – but King Netero has denied such claims, saying that he, when he was a child, had so greatly admired King Bumi that he began to pick up the late king’s traits.”

“He even refuses to have his own royal advisors,” Morel comments, snorting.

Only a few moments back, the two guards had insisted that they assist them to the palace, and Kurapika had been worried at first, asking the two who would then guard the entrance to Omashu, but his worries were promptly ceased once Knov and Morel had told him that another set of guards would just replace them. Gon had been surprised to find out that Knov and Morel were as warm as they were intimidating – though Knov had tried to keep an air of professionalism around them, answering their questions with quick words, Morel talked with abandon, endlessly chattering on about the king – what Gon hoped to be harmless information, something that wouldn’t lead to an ill-timed beheading.

“Really?” Kurapika asks in surprise, gray eyes widening, “So, he decides everything…” he hesitates, talking quietly enough to be heard only within their circle, “…on his own?”

Zepile whistles as if it’s a wonderment, and Leorio snickers into his palm. Gon furrows his brows in confusion. He couldn’t see the problem with King Netero’s way of ruling – after all, his independence, and perhaps even his impracticality, must have been what swayed the crowd to vote for him on the throne. Better a self-reliant king than a codependent one, no?

“No,” Knov laughs, shaking his head, “ _We_ , the guards, are his unofficial advisors. Though he hardly listens to what we say, so I’m quite doubtful of our unannounced position.”

Kurapika nods, staring down at his feet. “Ah, I see,” he says, “Omashu is an incredible city, and your mail system works wonderfully. King Netero knows what he’s doing – from what I have observed.”

“I agree,” Knov nods, but he abruptly stops in his steps, a look shared between him and Morel, “As much as I would like to continue this chitchat, we, however, have arrived.”

Knov and Morel raise both their arms in flawless synchronization, the gates bound by rocks spread open with ease.

Gon walks in, the first hall of the palace oddly empty, paintings of former kings hung in the walls, a wide, vacant space between the distance of wider walls. His vision is obscured by the barely lit room, opening his mouth to ask, but the questions fades midway his throat when a dooming figure appears from the darkness, dressed in a patterned robe, loud footfalls echoing in the halls, his presence regal.

That must be King Netero.

“You must be here to request for a seal,” the king says, and they stand speechless, mouth slacked open but words unwilling to be said, and he chuckles at their response, “Have you prepared the terms and conditions?”

Gon nearly jumps in surprise, and he talks before he could stop to think. “ _HUH_?” he exclaims, leaping closer to the king, ignoring his friends’ scandalized protests, “We needed _terms and conditions_?” he hardly controls the volume of his voice, his tone bordering on desperate, and the king laughs heartily at that, “ _For what_?”

“Why, my boy, for the seal, of course,” the king announces, waving his arms around, chest rumbling with laughter, “How do you expect to get the seal without any terms and conditions?”

King Netero’s words hardly breaches his ears, and Gon nibbles on the insides of his cheek in both confusion and frustration.

“…by requesting for one through a letter?” Kurapika says inquisitively, a brow raised.

To their surprise, the king merely laughs, his head thrown back as he wipes away mock tears from his eyes, chest wheezing. “Now wouldn’t that just be boring?” he says, chuckling at the four’s slacked jaws and wide eyes, “Tell you what, my only condition is to beat me. That’s it. You four get to choose which game to play.”

“ _A game?_ ” Leorio exclaims, fingers kneading his forehead, and Gon could hear the groan tickling the back of his throat, desperately hoping the king wouldn’t take his and Leorio’s outbursts in offense, “An actual, godforsaken game that would decide whether or not we’re going to get the seal – and one that we need to beat _you_ in?” Leorio huffs when the king nods, holding his hands in surrender, “Okay, you know what, your highness, I think we’d prefer it if we requested for the seal through a _letter_ instead. And your condition is near impossible – you’re the king of this city for gods’ sake! And –”

Zepile slaps a hand on Leorio’s mouth, effectively trapping the rest of the words in – to Gon’s relief. “He didn’t mean any of that, nor did he intend to disrespect, sire,” Zepile says meekly, laughing nervously as meets the king’s gaze, ignoring Leorio’s muffled complaints, “Please forgive him,” he shares a quick glance with Kurapika, both pertaining to Gon’s earlier yelling, “And us, your highness.”

King Netero laughs, loud and booming, flicking his hand. “No need for that,” he says, smiling widely, and only now does Gon notice the king’s stretched earlobes, adorned with two earrings in each, “Honesty is an admirable trait, and it takes an honorable soul to talk with such,” the king smiles, staring at Gon with a knowing gaze, and Gon feels as though his soul is laid bare with all the secrets he had hidden in the obscurity, “I suppose it would be quite unfair if that is my sole condition. Although, the Zoldycks are an opponent as tough as I am. You must be prepared with whatever comes your way once you arrive in the Northern Water Tribe – they’ve got ears and eyes everywhere.”

Gon tenses, a shiver running down his spine at the king’s words. _Spies._

“Alright!” the king says, clapping his hands, “You don’t need to defeat me. Just cut off a part of my body.”

Gon’s forehead creases in confusion. Certainly, that would be easier than trying to defeat the king, but he could hardly think of any game which would give them the opportunity to cut off a part of the king’s body. He purses his lips in thought, staring at the king – though the king may have appeared to be weak and frail, he knew that, beneath those layers, a monster was waiting to be awakened, deep in slumber.

“Okay, then,” Gon says, nodding, “Is it okay if I ask you to leave for a while so we could think of the game?”

“ _Gon_ ,” Kurapika hisses, tugging on Gon’s forehead, “You can’t just say that to the –”

“As I’ve said, I’m fine with it – in fact, it’s actually quite endearing,” the king says, laughter in his voice, shaking his head, “I’ll leave you four alone to discuss your condition. Call for me once you’re ready!”

With one last wave, the king disappears into the shadows of the hall.

The tension cracks like glass.

“Could you two _please_ attempt to think before you speak?” Kurapika says through gritted teeth, heatedly glaring at both Leorio and Gon, “If this had been any other king, he would’ve had you executed right on the spot.”

“Yeah, Kurapika, but it’s fine!” Gon urges, tone nearing a whine, “Right now, we should just focus on thinking of a game that would give us a chance to meet the king’s condition.”

Kurapika sighs, but he acqiueses, nodding solemnly.

“Well, what I was thinking of is that –” Zepile starts, huddling closer to them, “– since all we need to do is cut off a part of the king’s body, then this should all be very simple. We have three benders of three different elements, but Leorio won’t be much useful in the battlefield,” he grimaces at Leorio’s grunt, smiling apologetically, “Since, you know, there’s hardly water around, and you specialize in healing, anyways.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just continue on,” Leorio says, rolling his eyes.

“So that leaves us Gon and Kurapika – a firebender and an earthbender,” Zepile says, “Kurapika’s more suitable to fight King Netero – since they’re both earthbenders – but not enough to beat him on his own. That’s where Gon comes in.”

“You mean to say we still have to tire the king out before we could even attempt to cut off a part of his body?” Kurapika asks, a deep frown in his face, “Wouldn’t that be too time-consuming? And risky, too, since we hardly know the king’s limits, and by trying to find out, we would just be wasting our energies. It’s pointless.”

“Yes, but you didn’t let me finish,” Zepile says, pointed, “When you first start, you don’t show the king your metalbending. Use earthbending, and earthbending _only_. Once Gon distracts King Netero enough, that’s when you use your metalbending to cut off a part of the king’s body.”

Kurapika hums, nodding. “I see.”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Gon exclaims, impatience overt in his tone, “Should we call the king now, or do we still need to discuss anything else?”

They shake their heads in response, and Gon takes that as his cue.

“Your highness!” Gon hollers, his voice bouncing off the marble walls, “We’re ready for you!”

The king, as he did before, appears from the shadows with a bright grin on his face, a knowing glint shining in his gaze, and for a moment, Gon fears the king had been listening to them in secret, already knows what awaits for him, already figured out their plan the second he stepped in the light. He licks his lips nervously, repeatedly reminding himself that doubt kills, and fear hinders.

“We challenge you to a duel,” Kurapika speaks, stepping forward, “Gon and I.”

The king cocks a brow at that. “Oh?” he says, “The other two aren’t going to fight along?”

“Are we supposed to?” Leorio asks, uneasy.

“No rules stating that,” the king says, laughing, “No rules at all, actually. Just conditions.”

Gon feels his stance loosen in relief at the declaration – he absolutely detested rules; how they caged in your potential, and how they made you limit yourself, only to be put into a little box made acceptable for society. Rules in duels were even worse – duels were meant to be unrestricted, and rules would only deter the duelers. He remembers fighting with the other children back then – one that he treated as a mere game – but Mito-san stopped him from doing so, saying that their neighbors were complaining about the burns on their children’s arms. His chest clenches at the memory, and he felt as though he were a bird stuck in a cage as Mito-san’s words echoed in his head.

He shakes his head firmly, reminding himself that, this time, he wouldn’t be stuck in a cage. He would be flying free without anyone else to clip his wings – he could start a wildfire right in this very hall, and no one would slap his wrist for it. He winces at the thought then, remembering Knov and Morel.

“Shall we start then?” Kurapika says, walking to the middle of the hall.

Gon quickly follows, and soon he finds himself face-to-face with the king. He prepares his stance – feet grounded on the hard floor, traces of fire crackling against the palm of his hands, elbows bracketing the sides of his torso. In the corner of his eyes, he sees Kurapika preparing himself, his stance grounded and heavy – fitting for an earthbender, never knocked off their feet.

“Well, let’s not delay this any longer,” the king says, smiling cheekily, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

A silence dawns upon them, both sides anticipating.

Gon makes the first move. Flicking his hands to target the king, he readily shoots fireballs from his fingertips, aiming them at both the sides of the king’s head. The king easily dodges his jabs, raising his arms to create a block of earth between them.

Kurapika leaps closer to the block, kicking mid in the air, the block easily smashed to shambles on the ground. His eyes widen when the king is nowhere to be found behind the rock, sharing an alarmed look with Gon. He quickly turns, tries to scan the area, struggling to find the king in the dim halls, shadows in every corner.

A noise comes from above, and they realize a little too late.

The king jumps down from the ceiling, a slab of rock attached to his feet, floating in the air with a wide grin spread across his face. He takes advantage of Kurapika and Gon’s shellshock, bending two large slabs of earth from the ground, hovering still in the air. He splits the slabs into smaller, sharper pieces of rocks, and shoots them down the ground, aiming for Kurapika and Gon.

Gon breaks out of his reverie, raises both his arms into a vertical line as continuous streams of flames shoot from his palms, grunting when the king floats away from his previous position, his arms following along as he ignores the sharp stabs of the rocks pouring down. Kurapika levitates a long, flat rock above his head, protecting himself from the sharp rocks, and he bites on his lips, knowing that the king could easily dodge their attacks with the simple sway of his feet up in the air. He needs the king on the ground.

“Gon!” he shouts, “Aim for the slab of rock the king’s standing on!”

Gon quirks his brows, but he nods, redirecting his fire stream unto the slab under the king’s feet. He doesn’t see the reason to do so – the rock is immune against his fire, and trying to burn through it would only prove to be futile. His answers are quickly met with an answer when he sees Kurapika running on the other side, where the king isn’t looking, and he puts more effort into the flames, a layer of sweat on his skin. The king aims his sharp, dagger-like rocks in Gon’s direction, and hardly does he avoid it, the rocks scraping against his skin, leaving little, but bloody, scars.

Kurapika takes this as his opportunity, jumping in the air for his fist to be in lined with the rock, throws an indirect punch, and the rock crumbles down the ground.

The king hisses when Gon’s flame burn the undersides of his feet, and he quickly falls to the ground, pain shooting down his legs when he stands upright on his feet. He ignores painful contact of his burnt feet with the cold ground, bending a large ball of rock from the ground, and throws it in Gon’s direction.

The rock crashes against the ground, and Gon hardly dodges, ceasing his fire stream to produce his own fireball to counterattack. The king ducks, raising his arms to bend a long slab of rock from the ground, nearly as tall as the ceiling. Gon falters at the sheer size, eyes widening.

Kurapika squints his eyes, knowing that the king’s attention is on the rock. He strikes with his chains, reaching towards the king until they’re wrapped around his ankle. He knows the king has noticed, but the king hardly spares him a glance, and Kurapika furrows his brows at that. Without delay, he bends the metal chains into a pure stiletto, forgoing the pommel to sharpen the metal. It’s sharp enough that it gashes his palm just by holding it, blood prickling through the skin. He sees the blood pooling underneath the king’s foot, and before the king could attempt to move from the stiletto’s circular hold, he clenches on the dagger, bends it tighter around the king’s ankle. He ignores the heavy blood dripping from his own palm, and tightens the grip of the stiletto with his unoccupied hand. The king’s movement slow down, but the long rock still looms. Fireballs and rocks collide, and Kurapika struggles to concentrate.

Once that he’s proven that the king’s ankle is pierced enough, he quickly bends the stiletto into the chains, unwrapping it around the king’s ankle. The chain hangs mid-air, and he twists it into the shape of a chainsaw, cutting off the king’s ankle with a clean hit.

The fireballs cease, and everything slows down.

Kurapika bends the chainsaw back into his chains, locking it in his arms.

“Woah,” Gon says, jaw slacked as he stares at the king’s foot laying numbly on the floor, “…will…” he’s surprised to see that the king is still standing upright, grin bright on his face, “…will you give us the seal then?”

“Yes, of course!” the king says, clapping his hands.

Kurapika walks to the king, wincing at the severed foot soaked up in the puddle of blood. “Will you be okay, your highness?” he asks hesitantly, nibbling on his lower lip.

“Of course!” the king exclaims, jolly, “This is just a little scratch. Don’t you worry.”

Kurapika nods, but he still warily eyes the foot, crossing his arms.

Zepile and Leorio walk to them, both grimacing at the gruesome sight of the king’s cut-off foot layered in thick, crimson blood. Kurapika shifts uneasily on his feet when Leorio’s gaze linger too long on his bleeding palm, and he quickly hides it from sight, crossing his arms behind his back.

“Your majesty, I’m a healer, and I could try to heal your foot,” Leorio says, hesitant, “Well, I wouldn’t be able to reattach your foot, but I can stop the bleeding.”

The king waves his hands, shaking his head gleefully. “No, it’s quite alright,” he says, “I have my own set of healers, but thank you for the offer,” Leorio nods, bowing his head, “Now, let me just go fetch the seal.”

The group watches as the king limps off to the darkness, an awkward, stiff air around them.

“He was holding himself back,” Kurapika says, eyes lingering on the king’s foot, “He let us win.”

Gon frowns at that, creases in his forehead. He knew that he barely held a candlelight compared to the king’s abilities, but he would have rather lost if it meant taking the full brunt of the duel. He hated being pitied, especially at times like these – he wasn’t much to look at, he knows, but he merely wished that people would stop assuming he were as fragile as glass, breakable even to the shallow touch of a dull knife. He presses down on his teeth. As soon as he starts training with Biscuit Krueger, he swears he would mold himself into someone _worth_ looking at – someone whose skin wasn’t clinging to their bones, someone who towered above others in mere presence alone, someone with the scars of strength painted along the ridges of their body.

His eyes burned bright, and he buried that promise deep within his soul.

“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?” Zepile asks, rolling his eyes when both Kurapika and Gon send him an offended look, “Look, look, this isn’t just about your pride, and if the king had to hold himself back to give you a _chance_ to cut off his limbs, then so be it. In hindsight, what’s important is we already have the seal. We won’t have to wait for it anymore.”

Kurapika grunts, flinching when Leorio takes a step toward him, gaze stuck on his hands.

“Kurapika, let me see your –” Leorio tries to say, but his words are cut off when the king limps back into the room, an envelope in his hand.

“Here you all are!” the king says heartily, handing them the envelope, “This should greatly help you with your travels during the hunt,” he pauses, “Say, you don’t have any ride to Gaoling, no?”

“Ah, we were just planning to walk there, your majesty,” Zepile says.

“Hmm, but wouldn’t that take too long?” the king smiles knowingly at the sight of their pinched faces, “Exactly what I thought. See, I have the perfect creature to fly you to Gaoling!” their eyes widen at the mention of flying, “Would you like to see it?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

* * *

Leorio’s head is reeling with weighty thoughts – thoughts that refuse to leave his head, most probably glued down his skull, Leorio’s guessing. He hadn’t been able to focus ever since he saw Kurapika’s hands, marred with wounds, all ruined and bloodied, and the way the latter had tried to hide it from him, denying himself relief to the pain, had struck a chord in Leorio – he didn’t know if the punk had done it for the sake of his own pride, or in embarrassment of being caught so vulnerably, but his hands itched to soothe the cuts on Kurapika’s hands and wipe away the blood sticking to his palms. Leorio breathes through his nose, trying to will the thoughts away.

He looks up, frowning when he realizes the cuts littered on Gon’s face. He stops himself from blurting his thoughts aloud, knowing Gon wouldn’t want to be healed in front of an audience, would rather suck up the pain than let it be mended with other pairs of eyes watching. Leorio shakes his head, snorting – he understood it, of course, he himself had treasured his pride and dignity over most things, but to let the pain persist merely to preserve their pride… Leorio, in all honesty, found that _idiotic._ Perhaps he would never truly understand their reasons why because he wasn’t born a fighter. He wasn’t born aching to bruise the world around him, to mar his own skin with another one’s blood, to have corpses underneath his feet. _No._ He was born with hands that itched to soothe, with a heart that ached to love.

He bites his tongue, clenches on his fists, frustration running through him. They stop at large gates, and he hardly notices, eyes stuck on Kurapika’s bloodied hand and Gon’s scarred skin.

“Are you alright, Leorio?” Zepile asks, whispering, eyes concerned, “You seemed out of it for a second there.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m alright,” Leorio reassures, shaking his hands, “Just thinking, is all.”

The gates are opened with a loud screech against the floor, and Leorio’s attention is stolen away. Light breaches the murky walls, shining on the shadows.

His mouth falls open when he realizes what’s before them.

“ _A FLYING BISON!_ ” Gon exclaims, eyes widened as he takes a step closer, petting the bison’s heavy fur.

Kurapika, too, seems at lost for words. “I…” he clears his throat, voice dry, “I thought flying bisons were extinct?”

The king nods. “They are,” he says, his smile of affection when the bison croons, “But he’s not,” he steps closer to the bison, “His name is Colt.”

“I’m assuming this is our ride?” Leorio asks, whistling at the size of the bison.

“Yes!” the king merrily answers, “You four should get going now. Bisky Krueger doesn’t like waiting, you know.”

Uneasiness is stiff in the air, and they stare at each other, the king’s words echoing in their heads. Leorio furrows his brows, staring at the king, wondering how _the hell_ he knew about their next destination. To his surprise, he keeps his tongue in check – dead in his mouth, a heavy weight refusing to sprout any words – and none of them, not even Gon (a miracle, truly), bursts into some dramatic reaction, with the typical widened eyes, slacked jaws, and deafening bellows. He bites the inner skin of his cheek, walking to the bison, bringing down the ladder hanging by the bison. He climbs on the bison, pats its fur as he leans down on the saddle, reveling in the scenery of the sunset – a symphony of oranges and yellows sung in the sky, a dreamlike glow illuminated throughout. The others follow promptly – Gon sits on the very front of the saddle, childlike wonder in his golden gaze; Zepile lazily lays on the saddle, his position horizontal, eyes drooping sleepily; Kurapika’s steps falter, eyes staring at the space beside Leorio, hands twitching at his sides as he slowly sits down next to him, keeping their distance at a maximum.

He grips on the saddle when the bison starts to fly away, bringing them closer to the glow of the sky. He presses his lips tightly when he notices dark red splotches staining the brown saddle.

“You should just let me heal your hand,” Leorio says, and it takes all of his self-restraint to ignore the fierce glare Kurapika sends him.

“I don’t want to,” Kurapika snaps, and Leorio huffs disbelievingly, “And I don’t need your help. I can heal my hand on my own.”

“Okay,” Leorio says slowly, drawing out the words, “Let’s see you do it then.”

Kurapika groans, running his unbruised hand over his face. Silence, and then, “…Fine,” it’s hesitant, dubious, and Leorio briefly wonders why Kurapika struggled to accept something as simple as help before he squashes the thought with a reprimand from himself, “…just get on with it.”

“Okay,” he says simply.

He picks out his water pouch from his pockets, and with a hand, bends the healing water from the pouch, the water hanging suspended in the air. As he forces the water closer to Kurapika’s bloody palm, the latter flinches, a shake in his hands. Leorio’s movements still, biting on his lips, a slow, quiet realization dawning – this must have been the reason why Kurapika refused to be healed by him, a waterbender. A fear for a certain bender.

He suddenly aches to know why. But he pushes these thoughts to the back of his head, focuses his energy on healing.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, soft. The water lightly grazes Kurapika’s palm, the blood and the scars fading into a smooth plane of skin, unblemished and unmarred.

Kurapika stares at his palm, his eyes pensive. “Thank you,” he says, genuine in his words, but his tone stiff.

Leorio nods, bending the water back into his pouch, stuffing it into his pockets. He crosses his arms, shifts away from Kurapika as far as he can. Now that he knows about his fear of waterbenders – or caution is a more befitting term, perhaps – he wouldn’t want to try to coax it out into the light, nor would he want to purposely make Kurapika uncomfortable. Despite the earlier tension between them, Leorio feels responsible. Responsible for what exactly – Leorio doesn’t _know_ , but a tugging feeling clings on his chest, and he can’t shake it away.

“I’m sorry.”

Leorio’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I’m… sorry,” Kurapika fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, “I didn’t mean to say all those things to you.”

“Ah,” is all Leorio could get out, throat uncomfortably dry, back straightening as he tries to keep his thoughts at bay, “Yes, uh, me too. I didn’t mean anything that I said before. I only said them because you said them!” he winces at how stupid his own words sounded in his ears, his lips hesitantly curving into a soft smile when Kurapika laughed.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless from laughter, “Sorry for that.”

Leorio smiles, leaning against the saddle, and no longer does he try to keep a rigid distance between them, the tense air gone.

 _This_ , he decides in his head, staring at the sunset, _this is nice._

* * *

Bisky taps her foot against the ground in impatience, her movements repeated and rapid. She sighs for what felt like the hundredth time, glaring at the night sky. She has been _waiting_ for how many hours – not willingly, no, but on the king’s _urgent_ orders – and she desperately prays for a flying bison to appear out of the dark sky. Kneading her head with her hands, she turns to Palm, her lips pulled into a deep frown.

“Palm,” Bisky says, arms crossed against her chest, “What time did Knov said they were coming?”

“About nighttime,” Palm says, her messy hair a thick veil, “They should be here anytime soon. Hopefully, they weren’t deterred on the way.”

“That’s what you said the last few hours ago,” Bisky mumbles under her breath, huffing as she turns away, “What if they were attacked? Shouldn’t we go check?”

Palm rolls her eyes, runs a hand over her face. “ _How_?” she says, “They’re up mid-air on a flying bison. We would be the ones they’d need to check if we leave our post.”

“Well, _you_ were the one who said they might’ve been deterred by an attack!” Bisky hisses, jabbing her finger against Palm’s chest, “Gods, of all the people I could’ve been with, it had to be _you_!”

“ _WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT UP_?” Palm traps Bisky’s finger in her fist, a tight grip, “I, unlike you, am trying hard to follow what the king had set us up to do.”

Bisky forces her finger out of Palm’s tight grip, a snarl leaving her lips. “Oh, you mean what _Knov_ told you to do?” she snickers when Palm’s cheeks flush at the mention of the name, “Spirits above, when will you stop kissing up to him. You know he doesn’t like you.”

Palm’s face reddens in embarrassment. “How do _you_ know that?”

“Hello! Earth to Palm!” Bisky exclaims, eyes disbelieving, “We _literally_ caught him and Morel making out behind the halls! You saw it with your own eyes!”

Palm crosses her arms, huffing. “It could be a friends-with-benefits sort of thing.”

“Palm, you are downright delusional,” Bisky says, slapping her hand against her forehead, “There are better things to do than to waste your time hung up on some guy who hardly spares you a glance.”

“He’s not just some guy, Bisky!” Palm argues, “He’s my mentor! And he _does_ spare me a glance!”

“You are pathetic,” Bisky says, every word punctuated with the tap of her foot.

“ _FUCK YOU!_ ”

A ruffle of the leaves, chatter in the background, a bison crooning. “Did we, uh, come in a wrong time?”

Bisky turns around with a relieved, albeit melodramatic, sigh. “Fucking finally!” she exclaims, clapping her hands happily, “So, which one of you brats am I supposed to train?”

She takes them in with a curious gaze. A young man of fair height with the gaze of a child, thin through his clothes, but well-exercised, and atop his head is a crown of messy, spikelike hair, _painstakingly_ familiar – a firebender, she guesses, based on the color of his clothes, a dark maroon. A tall man with lanky limbs, a frustrated look permeated in his face, spectacles hanging on the tip of his nose – this one, she assumes to be a waterbender, his water pouch winking from his pockets. Another man of nearly the same height, odd wiggly eyebrows his most prominent feature, an odd set of clothes, and mischief in his smile – no telltale feature, must be a nonbender. A short blonde with chains adorning his hands, wearing a two-piece blue tabard, a red earring dangling in his ears – an earthbender, his stances solid on the ground.

“Me!” the young man says, and she winces at the volume of his voice, “I’m Gon Freecss! Nice to meet you!”

She briefly wonders why Netero had chosen a boy like that – someone so full of shine and light – to go up against someone like Killua Zoldyck, all dark and daunting. “I’m Bisky Krueger,” she introduces, face firm, “You’ll be staying with us until you’re ready to go to the Northern Water Tribe.”

“I can’t wait!”

Bisky leads them inside the building, hands twitching.

_Gon Freecss, huh? Must’ve been why he seemed so familiar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bisky and palm r bestfriends u cannot tell me otherwise:P 
> 
> hope u enjoyed this chapter, sorry for all the mistakes(i was rly sleepy when i was editing this aaaaa)! tysm for reading!!! i appreciate ur kudos and comments sm aaa!<3


	4. igne natura renovatur integra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **igne natura renovatur integra,** _through fire, nature is reborn whole_

_A petite silhouette, face of a porcelain doll’s, and something aged, something wise in her gaze,_ had been Gon’s first thoughts when he met Bisky, but words were hardly enough to describe her thunderous soul. She was short, the height of a young child, nearly a head shorter than all of them, but what she lacked in height, she had in presence. She wasn’t the intimidating kind, no – in fact, if Gon had arrived only a few hours earlier, she would’ve seemed sweet, but vulgar words had easily been spit from her mouth, as easy as a pirate would find it to be, and Gon, at first, struggled to correlate both her appearance and her words. She hadn’t intimidated Gon the way the king had, but rather she induced a curiosity in him, an eagerness to understand her and why she had been so well-known in these parts, a desire to know what drives her and her bending.

She induced intrigue rather than intimidation, made you think rather than tremble, and Gon greatly admired her for that. Not many people were capable of such, usually preferring to look like their scars, to parade their power in physicality, to show their capability in their skin.

At first, he and the others (even Kurapika, explaining their intentions during the ride) had been baffled at how Colt knew where to _exactly_ land, right where Bisky and another woman – whom Gon soon learns to be Palm, a student of the earthbender guard, Knov – had been, apparently, waiting for them. Gon’s brows furrow, surmising that that must’ve been why the king knew of where they planned to go next – either Mito-san had written a letter to Bisky, and Bisky unintentionally (doubtful, he is, of such) told the king, or he was merely a part of somebody else’s masterplan. Gon hoped it was the former – he wouldn’t want to be an unknowing pawn in a game of who-knows-what.

But he pushed his doubts away, focused on his training rather than his suspicions.

His first day of training, to his disappointment, hardly involved combat.

“ _What_?” Gon whines, “Why do I have to do that? I already know the basics of firebending, Bisky! And I’ve been practicing my stance ever since I was a child!” Bisky glares at him, lips pressed into a thin line, and Gon pouts, eyes wide as he tries to change her mind, “C’mon, Bisky, can’t we focus on my combat skills? Or what else I could do with my firebending? _Please_!”

“Gon,” Bisky sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, “We start at the beginning. Your stance greatly affects your bending, and even if you think you might be doing it right, you’re _not._ So, come on, in position! Chop-chop!”

Gon’s jaws drop at Bisky’s biting words. “ _Huh_?” he exclaims, “How do you know it’s not? You’ve never even seen me in my stance!”

“Exactly!” Bisky yells, “So, why don’t you get into your stance so I could see what’s wrong with it!”

Gon’s shoulders slump as he realizes Bisky’s play of words, sighing defeatedly as he stands in his stance – his feet spread apart at a reasonable distance to balance him on the ground, his torso hunched to lessen his opponent’s openings, hands curled into loose fists as he raises them before his face. He sweats nervously as Bisky scrutinizes his stance.

A few seconds of silence, and the Bisky hums. “Ah,” she says, walking around him in a circle, “I see.”

“See what?” Gon asks, gulping, dreading for her answer. He prided himself for his proper stance – at least, it was proper enough that he was hardly knocked off his feet – and, now, Bisky would dismantle it piece by piece. Rightfully so, of course, but Gon still dreaded for her words.

“Your stance doesn’t suit your bending,” Bisky says, words clear and direct, “It’s too firm, too solid – it’s a stance meant for an earthbender – which, actually, makes sense, considering that your –” Bisky bites her own tongue, cuts her words off abruptly, and a look of guilt passes through her eyes before it’s washed away by a sole blink, shaking her head, “Never mind. What I mean to say is you should loosen your stance, let the fire flow through your body,” Bisky points to his arms and feet, “There’s too much tension there. You’re too stiff, too inflexible.”

Gon’s brows crease, and he releases the tension stored in his body with a deep breath. “Like this?”

“Fire is something that flows, something that spreads,” Bisky says, finger pointed, “It’s easy to create, but harder to control. You move to bend fire to your will – and your stance is hardly allowing any movements,” Gon lets his posture loosen, lets his shoulders slump and uncurls his fist, while Bisky only shakes her head at that, “Loosen doesn’t mean to let go, Gon. Keep your shoulders up, fists always ready to attack, but don’t be stiff.”

Gon complies, resumes back to his stance, eases himself.

“Better,” Bisky comments, nodding her head, “Make a fireball.”

Gon breathes in, closing his eyes when he feels his inner flame spread through him, a liquified fire pulsing through his veins. His eyes open, blinking slowly as he fixates his energy on his fist. With a bated breath, he throws a punch to the air, the flames in his bones corporealizing into a thick stream of fire – and that feeling, it’s addicting. Gon lets out an exhilarated breath as he watches the flames dance with the wind, bright with coruscating colors, loud with small crackles, before it dissipates into the air. Whenever he firebends, he feels as though his soul reifies into fire, as though a part of him fuses into his flames. To know that _he_ , someone so trivial, could be a part of something so beautiful, something so capable – that, _that_ was where the true beauty of bending lay.

“Impressive,” Bisky says, and Gon’s heart flutters with excitement at the awe twinged in Bisky’s voice, “Of course, I wouldn’t expect less of the son of –” and there it is again – Bisky cuts herself off midway, her gaze of guilt, “ _Ugh._ Don’t mind that,” she shakes her head and smiles, but Gon can’t shake off the feeling that there’s _something_ he’s meant to know, “Let’s see your techniques.”

Gon pushes his questions in the back of his mind, and smiles excitedly. _Finally._

Gon prepares to shoot out daggers of fire through his fists before he remembers something, lips pursed.

“Actually, I do have this technique,” Gon says thoughtfully, “I don’t use it that much, though – it’s still a bit underdeveloped, and if I’m distracted enough, it could go out of control – but it’s powerful. _Really_ powerful,” _and destructive_ , Gon adds in his mind, memories of the burned houses and crops suddenly resurfacing from the black of his mind, shuddering when he remembers Mito-san’s face at the aftermath, “It nearly took me out after I tried it once.”

“And that was the last time you tried it?” Bisky asks, a brow raised in curiosity.

“Yeah,” Gon says, gulping, “Mito-san didn’t allow me to try it again after that. I… I did a lot of damage then, so I don’t really blame her,” he bites his cheeks, “People almost died because of me.”

“I see,” Bisky says, thoughtful, “Well, good for you, there aren’t any people here. Try it.”

Gon nods, his teeth gritted.

He gets into position – his right shoulders leaned back, right fist placed against his waist – and closes his eyes in concentration. He wills everything – his desires, his anger, his conflicts; everything that he feels, everything that makes him _burn_ – into his right fist, and he feels the entirety of his _chi_ redirecting into his palms to his hands to his knuckles. The world is a blank black, and he doesn’t open his eyes even when his right fist is shaking with the hyperfocus of his chi, knowing that the different lights and colors would only distract him from his intention.

His vision is dark, right fist ablaze, and his senses are lessened – noises from the outside world are merely a static in his ears, and all that he could feel was the fire brewing in his right fist.

He breathes in. _Ready, set…_

He throws his fist into the air, and he could hear the smoldering sounds of the intensified fireball, crashing into the side of the room with an explosive _boom_.

Before Gon opens his eyes to examine the damage, the sudden image of a pale, ocean-eyed man pushes its way to the center of his mind, the image quickly morphing into a scene of the Zoldyck taking in the brunt of his flames, of _this_ , and the thoughts of the Zoldyck’s ashen skin being burned until it crumbled to ashes that faded away with the wind, of how his orange flames would coalesce with the Zoldyck’s own colorless body, of how the Zoldyck would retaliate, either use his remaining strength to bloodbend him till he fell to his knees, body sucked dry from blood, or bend an icicle into his throat until he couldn’t breathe, until blood dripped down his chest in crimson droplets. Those thoughts ignited a roaring fire in him, and he shudders, body shaking – with want or anger, he doesn’t know.

“My gods,” he hears Bisky mutter beside him, and that snaps him out of his cornering thoughts, eyes fluttering open, “You really have taken after your old man, huh?”

Gon’s own eyes widen at the destruction – the other side of the building in shambles, blackened to ruins, and Gon winces, nearly apologizes before he remembers that Bisky had allowed, _wanted_ him to do this.

Then, Bisky’s words reiterate in his head: _you really have taken after your old man, huh?_

Old man?

“Bisky,” Gon says, facing her, “You said something about my old man…” he sees the familiar guilt wash over Bisky’s expression, and his questions are too impossible to ignore, to disregard, that the words spill from his mouth like waterfalls, hardly giving Bisky any time to think of another excuse, “…Did you know him? Mito-san never talked about him – or anything that involved him – and I didn’t want to ask her. Every time I tried to, she would always have this painful look in her face.”

Gon pauses in his words as he remembers the way Mito-san looked every time he brought up the subject of his father – tears that would gather in the corner of her eyes, the air around her would turn melancholic, and she would close herself off. All he knew about his father was that he died from a heart attack – which the nearby neighbors had said to him after Gon’s pleading. He always wondered why everyone else around him had been so hesitant or unwilling to talk about his father – Mito-san, Bisky, his neighbors – and why everything they said had been cryptic and cut-off. They were cautious about this topic, as if it were taboo to say it aloud in front of him.

“…do you know what happened to him?” and his words are said in a whisper – quiet, broken, everything unlike him.

To his surprise, Bisky is shocked – widened eyes, body locked, furrowed brows.

“You don’t know your who your _father_ is?” Bisky shouts in shock, “You really, _really_ don’t know who your father is? Not even his name? Or how he looks like? Or _who_ he was?”

Gon shakes his head. “No.”

Bisky runs a hand over her face. “Spirits, this was even worser than I thought,” she mutters, but loud enough for Gon to hear, “Of course, your aunt and the king told me to be careful about this topic, especially around you, but I never thought…” Bisky trails off, seeming as though she was in an internal crisis, and the short-lasting silence is broken by an abrupt shout, her face suddenly angry, “…I am gonna _murder_ that old man! Always leaving the hard parts to _me_! Now, who does he think he is, and who does he think _I_ am, huh?” she scoffs, and she seems to have forgotten the world around her, “Do I look like some miracle worker to him? Or some damned therapist? I’m a fucking trainer for fuck’s sake! A master of bending, not breaking hearts and crushing souls!”

“Bisky, what are you talking about?” Gon asks, concerned.

Bisky sighs, kneads her hairline with her hands in circling motions. “Damn that old king,” she utters under her breath before she looks up at Gon, something _unbearably_ sad in her eyes – and Gon quivers, the look too familiar to Mito-san’s, “Listen, Gon, let’s take a break first and discuss this in the living room, alright?”

Normally, Gon would protest and continue his training, but his desperation to _finally_ know his father – who was merely a dark, faceless shadow in his mind, who would appear when he had no one else to lean to – overrules his intention to train and fight. He nods firmly, wordlessly following Bisky to the living room.

He sits down on a chair, waiting for Bisky to speak.

“Gon,” she starts, flattening her dress with her hands, “Do you know the story of the last Avatar?”

Gon nods, but he struggles to understand how both these subjects coincide with each other. “Yes,” Gon answers quickly, “Who doesn’t?”

“Yes, exactly,” Bisky says, “You know how he died, right?”

“Yeah,” Gon says through gritted teeth, “By the hands of Killua Zoldyck.”

“Do you know _how_ exactly?”

“No, not really,” Gon answers, “Mito-san used to tell me stories of the last Avatar, but she never really specified how he died exactly. All I know was that the Zoldyck killed him.”

Bisky smiles, but it’s more of a grimace, really – something painful in her gaze, something regretful. “Killua Zoldyck is an assassin, and assassins only killed when they’ve been paid to,” Gon hums at that, eagerly listening, “Someone offered to pay the Zoldycks – Killua Zoldyck, specifically – an amount of a million gold pieces to kill the last Avatar. Of course, the Zoldycks accepted.”

Gon’s jaw drops. A million gold pieces could only be _equivalent_ to an empire.

“They sent in Killua to kill the last Avatar – who, at that time, had only been nine-years-old.”

 _Nine-years-old_ … He knew that he and the Zoldyck were the same age, so if the Zoldyck had only been nine the time he killed the last Avatar, that meant Gon lived at the time – albeit short – where the last Avatar still roamed the world, maintaining peace and securing everything unstable. He lets out a breath, suddenly thrilled at the fact.

“Can you imagine it? I barely remember my life when I was nine, yet Killua Zoldyck, at that age, has killed one of the most powerful benders to ever live,” Bisky shakes her head, and Gon’s eyes squint when a brief glint of admiration shines in her eyes, “How he killed the Avatar was, frankly, quite impressive. Zoldyck had mastered the art of waterbending by then, but bloodbending was where his specialty lay – he was the first of his family, and of the world, to bloodbend without a full moon. Do you know how he killed the last Avatar?” Gon shakes his head in response, enraptured by the detailed tale of the last Avatar, “Zoldyck stopped the Avatar’s blood flow. The Avatar hardly lasted a minute.”

Gon freezes, shock taking over him, and fear clawing through his chest. _Stopped someone else’s blood flow at the tender age of nine_ , he breathes, hands shaking, _who knows what else he’s capable of? If he were able to kill someone through bloodbending in a few minutes at that time, then, right now, at the age of nineteen, how long would it take for him to kill? Maybe, only a few seconds…_

Gon gulps, sweat forming over his hairline. “Why…” he says, shaky, “…why are you telling me this, Bisky?”

“Do you know the name of the Avatar, Gon?”

He shakes his head.

“Ging,” Bisky says, and Gon is still confused at how all this is relevant, until… “Ging _Freecss._ ”

_Freecss._

_Gon Freecss._ Ging _Freecss._

_Freecss._

Blood pounds in his ears, and Gon finds it hard to breathe, the air locking in his lungs. He sits limp against the chair – eyes blank, blinking slowly. The last Avatar – his _idol_ during his childhood, and maybe until the days before today – was his father – someone who was merely a faceless shadow that Gon chased out of boredom and curiosity. The last Avatar, his father – two separate entities in his mind coinciding into one. Two people whom Gon had never thought would crisscross within each other, perpendicular to one another rather than what he thought to be a parallel. The last Avatar – his _father_ , his mind adds shakily – was killed by the Zoldyck. The very Zoldyck he was hunting for.

Everything felt too surreal, too unbelievable.

Gon _should_ be angry; angrier at the Zoldyck. He should be happy; happy to find out his father’s identity. He should _feel_ something, anything.

Only he _doesn’t._ He’s shaking, but not with anger. He’s numb, but not with sadness. He’s humming, but not with happiness.

Just _blank._

“Are you okay, Gon?” Bisky asks.

Gon looks at Bisky in earnest, and she may have already found her answer in his expression – given the sudden understanding that dawns her face, eyes alight with empathy.

“Yeah, I am,” Gon answers, his lips lengthening into a wide smile, “Thanks for telling me, Bisky. Could we go back to training now?”

Bisky nods, chest heaving with a restrained sigh.

 _This_ , she thinks as she follows Gon into the training room, his steps eager and excited, as if he didn’t carry – _acknowledge_ – the weight of what she told him, _this is why Netero had chosen Gon._

* * *

After her revelation, and his initial reaction, Bisky hadn’t been too surprised at Gon’s normalcy. He acted as though nothing important had been revealed to him. He was as consistent in his efforts during training as he was before they had the discussion about his father. He devoutly followed the various routines Bisky had given him to strengthen his body, no matter how exhausting it seemed in mere theory, and even more in practice. He’d never even shown a sign that he had been, at the very least, affected by her revelation. Even his friends – she _swore_ she could still hear Leorio’s shocked exclaim, and her ears _ached_ for days after that – reacted more than he did. Gon – a bright boy with an even brighter gaze, full of life and light, his smile an inspiration, his laughter a medicine, and everything else about him fiery – hardly even _blinked_ when she revealed the last Avatar’s identity, his own father.

Bisky was certain that he had shown more emotion when they talked about trivial matters – how Bisky practiced her bending, what was Palm’s favorite color, why they bickered so much. But, in the moment that could have – _should_ have – changed his path, his perception, _himself_ , Gon had stayed calm, his eyes eerily blank – what Bisky remembered to be vivid shades of amber, putting all the world’s golds and jewels to shame, had faded into a dull, drabby brown, the shine in them gone with the wind. He looked as though the life of his soul had abandoned him, merely an uncaring vessel in this world.

 _That_ had been when she realized why the king had chosen Gon to hunt for Killua Zoldyck – he was unchanging in his desires, in his goals, and hardly anything or _anyone_ could deter him from himself, from what he wanted to do. He was selfish, certainly, but not in an uncompassionate way, not in the way kings were – he was still kind, still caring, but he was driven by _only_ himself, only had goals to satiate himself, only had wants _just because_. Not much of the external world around him affected him and his current goal – certainly, they had played a part in his incentive; protecting his friends, avenging the world (his father?), the valuable reward – but what _truly_ motivated him in capturing Zoldyck was his own curiosity. She knew he was curious about Zoldyck, about his bending, about his apathy – she knew it from the way his eyes glimmered in a telltale gleam, from the way he straightened up when the Zoldyck’s name was thrown around, from the way he folded intricate paper swans and set them aflame, a brutal metaphor.

If Gon’s goal would benefit the world, that was merely coincidental. This wasn’t to say that he was inhumane or amoral, no, as Gon had his own twisted sense of what was right and what was wrong, but Gon would never participate in anything that wouldn’t benefit him. It had to, in some way, involve him – capturing Zoldyck would appease his growing curiosities; it would turn his name into its own legend, forgoing the Freecss surname; it would make him look like some hero in the world’s eyes; it would _immortalize_ him through stories, and tales, and rumors.

Bisky sighs as she watches Gon fight another waterbender in Heavens Arena’s two-hundredth floor – the underground fighting site which Gaoling is famously known for – and she _already_ knows Gon would defeat him. She doesn’t even know why Gon still participated in fights like these. At first, after his constant training, the only reason he wanted to fight in Heavens Arena was to harness his combat skills, and to earn money for them during their travel to the Northern Water Tribe.

It had nearly been months since that. Though Gon had started in the first floor, he now fought in the lowest ground – the two-hundredth floor where, rather than money, you receive fame and glory in exchange to your victories. In Heavens Arena, the more victories you earned in duels, the lower your floor would be – and though it seemed the opposite, the lower the floor, the greater the glory.

Her eyes widen with shock when Gon gets knocked off his feet, the waterbender – whom, Bisky notes distractedly, isn’t _too_ bad-looking – sending him flying off to the other side of the arena, whooping cheers coming from the stands. Bisky furrows her brows in wonder – Gon, usually, had beaten his opponents with one swing of his fist… but this one, this waterbender seemed different. Dressed in white clothes, quite an odd choice for a waterbender, with hair the same shades as her dresses – pink and purple, at best – and even his style of bending was odd. Water was meant to flow, but his bending style was… _sticky_ , for the lack of better words to use. He bended the water as if it were as solid as earth, and molded it into clinging ropes – it clung on to whomever it caught, a form of solidified water, but not exactly ice. Ice was hard as rock, but fragile as glass. She didn’t how the man had done it, but she _did_ know that she held that man in higher regard now – no longer some nameless waterbender Gon could defeat as easily as he breathes.

The referee blows his whistle, a sound that meant the duel was over, declaring _The Magician_ had won. In Heavens Arena, no bender was allowed to use their real name – Gon had chosen the pseudonym _Jajanken_ , after his own bending techniques.

The crowd around her soon dissipates into an emptiness, and soon the familiar silhouette of Gon makes its way in her vision. After a few months of training, exercise, and a well-balanced diet, Gon no longer looked as though he were a step away from death’s doorstep – something that Bisky greatly prided herself for.

“Gon,” Bisky drawls, crossing her arms, eyeing the obvious wounds in arms, scowling at Gon’s sheepish smile, “You know you have to stop fighting here. Don’t you want to save all that energy in capturing Zoldyck?”

“ _But Bisky_!” Gon whines, childish, “This is supposed to train me in capturing the Zoldyck! I’m sure that the Zoldyck is far stronger waterbender than _The Magician_ , yet he still managed to beat me, didn’t he?”

“Of course, he still managed to beat you!” Bisky exclaims, “You’ve only started training properly a few months back! You aren’t going to become a master in such a short amount of time! It takes years and years of proper training to master your element, and each element is an adversity of its own.”

“If I can’t even beat some Heavens Arena bender, what more if I try to go against the Zoldyck?” Gon asks, his frustration apparent in his face.

“Because you have people with you!”

Gon frowns at that, brows furrowing into a frustrated line, as if he were against the prospect of being _supported_ by his own friends against a _deadly_ assassin. Bisky wouldn’t be too surprised if he were. Gon had this thirst to prove himself to everyone around him – he wanted to get everything done by his sole hands, wanted Zoldyck’s blood smeared across his own skin, and no one else’s. Gon adored the weight of responsibility, of being depended on, of being _needed_ – he was selfish to a point that he wanted the glory and the gore only to himself, but selfless enough to bear the heavy weight of the world for others.

“I know,” Gon says, fists clenching at his sides, “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Bisky softens at that, the sudden urge to pat Gon’s head coursing through her. “Gon,” she says, her tone firm, “Leorio, Zepile, and Kurapika knew what they were getting into. They were prepared to risk their life in one way or another, and you can’t just discredit their efforts because you suddenly decide that you want to play hero.”

While Gon had been relentless training, the other four – including Palm – had been devising a plan on how they would corner Zoldyck without setting too much suspicion, and how they would restrain him from using his bloodbending. In actuality, Bisky hardly participated in those discussions because, if she wasn’t training Gon, then she would be elsewhere, usually strolling around in earthen places to collect rare gems to add to her growing collection – it’s a new hobby, an obsession of a sort, that only grew each passing day.

“I know,” Gon says, sighing as he runs a hand over his hair, “We’re supposed to go back up now, right?”

Bisky nods, and she already starts walking. “Yup,” she answers, admiring the way her pink shoes stood in stark contrast against the grimy floor, “Palm told me that they finally thought of a plan. Though I did try to coax them into _just_ telling me, they insisted that everyone should be present – and the only one missing was _you_ , Gon.”

She briefly looks back to glare at Gon.

“Oh, sorry about that,” Gon says, fastening his pace to walk by her side, “I’m here now, though, so it’s okay!”

She rolls her eyes at Gon’s childish behavior, his tone almost of innocence, would have almost fooled her if she didn’t know Gon as well as she did. Gon, no matter how simple-minded he seemed, no matter the times he had voiced out his hatred for the constricting rules of logic, was a subtle complexity – something of which was impossible to ignore once you looked in the right angle, a lingering whisper in the ears. He was complex in a way that was simple, selfish in a way that was _not_ – he was a walking oxymoron, contradictions after contradictions, and he was a book to be read, only, every turn of each page lies another secret waiting to be uncovered, another complication not meant to be solved, another story aching to be told.

Soon, the dark crevasses of the underground arena is replaced by the dimming sky, the sun low enough that everything else is alight in a soft gleam, and Bisky finds herself holding her breath, caught up in the unnoticed beauty of all things plain and simple, of things they see every day that the sweet glow diminishes into a dull light, of things that become such an important part of their life that they become too trivial to even acknowledge – _those_ type of things, Bisky had adored. The little rust in the ocean-colored gem, the little nuances of life that Bisky grew to appreciate.

She and Gon walk to the building – where they had been staying for the last few months, happily provided by the king – in a remaining, but comfortable silence, thoughts kept to themselves.

Opening the door, Bisky walks in first, surprised that everyone else had gathered around the table. At times, everyone else would be off in different directions, busy with various things – Kurapika with some sort of eyes, Leorio with the progress of his healing, Zepile with his fickle plans for the future… and Palm with… _thoughts_ of Knov. They were all different people walking in different lines; stark, overt contrasts separating each of them in a self-drawn line.

Funnily enough, the only thing that bound them together was Zoldyck.

* * *

Gon enters the room with loud steps, his smile sheepish when the rest of the group turns to direct their pointed gazes at him. He stretches his arms as he walks to the center of the room, sitting down on a chair, wincing at the feeling of his stiff body against the prickly wood – after his duel with _The Magician_ , someone who, for the first time in months, had sent Gon flying across the arena, his back ached with sore spots, newly-formed bruises trailing down from his lower back to the back of his knees. _The Magician_ ’s way of waterbending had been odd – he bended the water as if it were some adhesive material, and Gon, until now, couldn’t wrap his head around it. He didn’t even _know_ that such things were possible – that you could turn your element into any property you want.

He shakes his head, focusing on the voices around him.

“So, are you going to finally tell _me_ the plan now that Gon is here?” Bisky says, and it’s more of a demand rather than a question, arms crossed, huffing petulantly when Palm sends her a look.

Gon snickers.

“Not everything is about you, Bisky,” Palm says, rolling her eyes, “Actually, wrong wording – even if you have no business nosing your way in, you’d still find a way to make it about you,” Palm says, scoffing, and Gon’s brows raise in concern – with Palm and Bisky’s odd, _quite_ hurtful ways of showing affection to one another, no one really knew where they drew the line, “What I meant was you don’t have to make _everything_ about you.”

“Oh, just like the way you make everything about Knov?” Bisky retorts back, “If there’s anyone being nosy about someone else’s business, it’s _you_ , Palm. Do I need to remind you of your creepy voyeuristic tendencies, or are you fine remembering that by yourself?”

“ _Wow_ ,” Palm drawls, “Look who’s talking.”

Bisky’s face burst in a red bloom, spitting insults harsh enough to make a pirate cry, and Gon only sighs. They were even worse than Leorio and Kurapika – and _that_ was quite a feat to achieve. His head aches with the recurring memories of Leorio and Kurapika’s voices echoing throughout the house at the dead of the night – the _only_ time Gon lets himself rest.

“Guys, guys,” Zepile intervenes, much to Gon’s relief, “Enough with the arguing. We’ve only got a few hours left before we need to leave.”

“Yes,” Kurapika says, exasperated, “Please calm down. The both of you. It’s not the time to act like immature children.”

Bisky huffs, leaning against the chair, while Palm merely rolls her eyes, crosses her legs – but, much to everyone else’s relief, silence finally grew in and replaced the heated words.

“So, the plan?” Gon prompts.

“Well, it would be too risky to even try to sneak in the Zoldyck igloo,” Zepile starts, rubbing his palms together, “And the only reason for the Zoldycks to leave their hiding spot is when someone recruits them. So, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

Gon frowns, noticing the loophole in the plan quite immediately. “Wouldn’t the Zoldycks know about the hunt for their son, though?”

“Of course,” Leorio says, lazily leaning back against the couch, hands stretched to rest against the back of his neck, “But that’s not going to stop them, obviously.”

“Exactly, which is why we made the amount of money impossible to resist, even if they wanted to,” Zepile says, and Gon briefly wonders where they had gotten the money before answering his own question with the name of the king – oddly enough, the king of Omashu had been heavily involved in the hunt, _their_ hunt, specifically, “You’re going to be the decoy, Gon, and once Zoldyck is distracted enough with trying to kill you – that’s where Palm and Kurapika come in,” Gon leans forward in interest – he never really found out what Palm could do, the latter always preoccupied with other things to even try to listen to his questions, “They would be the ones to restrain Killua to make sure he doesn’t use his bloodbending.”

Bisky frowns, brows furrowed. “But Zoldyck’s way of killing is quick and efficient – stop the blood flow of his target, make it pass for a heart attack, and then leave with money,” she says, “Who’s to say that he won’t kill Gon the first moment he sees him?”

“He won’t,” Kurapika answers, and a flash of silver shines in Gon’s periphery, “I’ll have my chains around his hands the first second we see him.”

Bisky scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “And how would you do that?”

Kurapika tugs his hand backwards, and the sound of metal clasping echoes in the room, the corner of his lips quirking when Bisky gasps. “Like that.”

“Gotta give it to you, kid,” Bisky says, marveling at the tightness of the metal around her wrists, “How’d you manage to do that?”

“Gon hasn’t been the only one training, you know,” Kurapika says, finally unclasps the metal around Bisky’s wrists, and quickly wraps it around his own.

“Okay,” Gon says slowly, “So, I pretend to be a target, then Kurapika and Palm constrict the Zoldyck, what then?”

“Well, Leorio will be waiting at the ship – which, and thank gods for this, the king had generously lent to us,” Zepile says, and Gon nods, “Once we’ve managed to secure Zoldyck, we sail to the Earth King.”

“Okay,” Gon says, the sudden weight of the hunt dawning on him, only a few weeks away from the Zoldyck.

That excitement again, that burning _want_ , courses through his bones, and Gon can’t help but shudder.

_Here we go._

* * *

The hours bled into each other until they felt like mere seconds to Gon. Sooner than anticipated, the clock was ringing to signify their departure. They had to leave early, earlier than what was originally planned, considering that the Northern Water Tribe was on the other side of the continent, and Gon only hoped there wouldn’t be too much detours. He wore clothes meant for the cold – white shirt tucked underneath a dark green coat which he had borrowed from Zepile, considering that life in the Fire Nation hardly needed such outfits.

He leans against the ship’s railing, the saltiness of the sea clear in the air, and he doesn’t feel as stuck as he did the first time he rode a ship. He doesn’t feel as though the floorboards underneath him crack with every step he took, and soon he’d find himself falling into the pits of the ocean. It’s not too hard to breathe anymore.

He breathes in, the air sweet with the ocean’s mysteries, and, in a fleeting thought, he imagines the Zoldyck smelling like this, like the ocean – something as divine as the ocean glimmers in the gleam of dawn, morning waves with an effervescent glow, and something as deadly as bottle bodies helplessly fall into the ocean, their screams muffled by the cruel waves.

_At long last, Killua Zoldyck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas is it gay to imagine how your supposed enemy smells like ?? is it gay to imagine both of you dying at each others hands ??? fellas ?????
> 
> and surprise surprise ging freecss is the last avatar, and even tho it seems otherwise, it stirs up smth in gon and aaaaa i cannot wait to finally write both killua and gon together!!!
> 
> ne ways, sorry 4 the mistakes i was half-way asleep while writing this plsss,,, but tysmm 4 reading hehe hope u enjoyed<3


	5. omnes una manet nox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **omnes una manet nox,** _one night awaits everyone_

_His heartbeat is abnormally rapid, even faster than it should be,_ he notes, his mouth gaping in a yawn, elbows lazily propped on the bed, fingers moving in circular movements in the air, snickering as he watches the blonde man helplessly spin in circle, in sync with his fingers, _must have some kind of heart disease._

His eyes slowly blink, and decides that he doesn’t want to make this harder on the man or longer for himself. _He was already a few steps away from death’s doorway, anyways,_ he thinks, his hand curling into a fist, the blonde man’s body following along, bending into a crescent, ignoring the blonde’s desperate pleads with a poorly-stifled yawn escaping his mouth, rolling his eyes when the blonde starts to scream for help, for mercy.

 _Might as well push him in_. He pushes his razor-sharp nails into his palms, and with another yawn, he watches the blonde’s body curve into itself, the familiar sound of breaking bones – the blonde’s spine, to be specific, he made sure to target the man’s back – faintly ringing in his ears. He turns on his back, and in the corner of his vision, he could see the blonde’s body gracelessly plop on the floor, a puddle of blood circling around the man. He groans, tiredly rubbing his hand against his forehead – he _would_ still have to clean this mess. His father had set them ground rules if they had to kill within the manor – the most important was that no residue should remain within the halls.

And here, in _his_ bedroom, lay a body that would decay soon.

_Goddamnit._

With a guttural groan, he forcibly stands from his bed, his bones heavy in his skin. He walks to the body, a sigh tumbling from his lips at the sight – a plash of blood dirtying his ivory floor, the body folded in half like mere paper, the man’s yellow hair darkened in crimson shades.

Suddenly, a knife sinks in the back of the man’s neck. He crosses his arms, brow raised as he looks at Kalluto – dressed in their night garments, eyes dull from sleep. They must have only woken up.

“Kal,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “What’re you doing here?”

“Cleaning up your mess,” Kalluto answers, shrugging as they pick out bloodied knives from their pockets to show him, “Your admirers snuck through the kitchen. I was thirsty, and I didn’t really want them walking around with their dirty shoes – you’re welcome for that, by the way,” they hum as they walk around the body, taking in the sight, “How messy.”

“I know,” he says, folding his hands on the back of his head, leaning casually, “But he woke me up. It’s his fault for sneaking in my room while I was _asleep_ ,” he squints, his sibling’s words from earlier reiterating in his mind, “And don’t call them my _admirers_ , Kalluto.”

“Well, they’re _willingly_ sneaking in a manor of renowned assassins to reach you,” he rolls his eyes at Kalluto’s wording, “I think that’s quite admirable.”

He scoffs. “The only thing these dumbasses are admiring is the money,” he says, rolling his eyes, “They can hardly stand their ground in the manor, and they really deluded themselves into thinking they could capture _me._ ”

Kalluto shrugs. “But they went through Mike – however they did it, that is,” they say, thoughtful, “They should be pretty skilled if they managed to pass through Mike, knowing that they went in through the back door. I think their self-delusion is quite justified.”

His eyes narrow. “Oi, Kalluto Zoldyck, are you comparing me to a damn dog?”

Kalluto raises a brow, blinking. “Of course not,” they say, deadpanning, “I’m just giving credit where it’s due,” they step closer to the man, ignoring the blood staining their shoes, examining the man’s face, “Hm, I think he looks familiar. I know I’ve seen him somewhere.”

“Well, I’m tired of seeing him on my floor,” he sighs, picks the man off the floor, grimaces as he slings the man over his shoulders, the blood tainting his clothes, “Ugh, I liked these clothes,” he says with a sigh, adjusting the man’s weight on his shoulders, and looks at Kalluto with a pleading smile, uncharacteristically toothy, “Could you please clean up the blood for me, Kal?”

Kalluto sighs, but they nod. “Fine,” they say, narrowing their gaze, “But you have to promise that you’ll take me to the snow festival next week. I couldn’t attend last time because, apparently so, I needed someone of age to come with me.”

He nods eagerly. “Sure thing,” he says, walking to the door, kicking it open, “Thanks, Kal!”

Kalluto says something back, but he’s too far away to even hear the half of it. He lets out a sigh, grunting when the man on his shoulders leave away a trail of blood on the ivory floors, deep red smearing the white floors in pellets. He would need to clean that later – his mother would have a fit, almost theatrical, and he would never hear the end of it. His head aches with the thought of his mother’s shrill voice going on and on, yelling words right into his ears, and that makes him walk faster to the disposal room, the newest addition to the Zoldyck manor. Ever since the bounty on his head, more and more have tried to sneak in, and, quite shockingly, a few has managed to get in, which had led him – and some of his family members, like Kalluto, and he’s fairly certain Illumi has killed another man who tried to sneak in the bathroom while Illumi was taking a bath – to request a room to dispose the body from his father, legs aching from continuously having to walk far distances merely to throw away the rotting bodies. His father, taking pity on his children, easily complied.

He groans, missing the familiar, homely warmth of his bed – those silk sheets would feel _heavenly_ wrapped around himself, whilst sinking in the unbelievably soft mattress. He briefly closes his eyes at the thought, revels in the imagined sensations from his bed, while he hurries his pace, walking in long, easy strides despite the heavy weight on his shoulders. This would have been easier if his father had just allowed their butlers to clean up the mess, but his father had been firm on his decision, saying how it would serve as a part of his training – an assassin should be able to clean and dispose their target’s body without needing help from anyone else.

 _And it would even be easier if Dad let the butlers kill the hunters instead,_ he thinks with a sigh. Though the butlers were capable – hell, they were _trained_ to deal with these matters – his father had ordered them not to, saying that, as this is _his_ mess, then no one else should be involved – with the exception of his family, of course, as, somehow, they’re also roped into the bounty – which further annoyed him. He shouldn’t have to waste any of his time and energy on these unskilled, arrogant bastards.

He scoffs when he remembers the man’s laughable, pathetic confidence. The man hadn’t even tried being subtle, his steps as loud as a tiger shark’s flaps in the sea, his aura radiating overconfidence, too sure of himself. He supposed that was where the man’s fatal flaw, among many others, lay – he was too certain of his presumptions that he forgot to consider life’s uncertainties. He scoffs – this man does _not_ deserve to be carried on by _him._

With a breath of relief, he rushes to the disposal room, quickly opening the door. His nose scrunches at the smell of rotting bodies, gagging – the butlers haven’t taken out the bodies yet, then. It’s nearly piling up to the ceiling, each body laid on the floor without grace, thrown in the room like simple trash. He smiles at the thought – they _are_ trash; idiotic, delusional trash – and flings the man’s body across the disposal room like a ragdoll. It lands atop the pile of bodies – another useless addition to an even more useless collection. He supposed a part of him should feel guilty because, at some point, these idiots had a life of their own, had aspiration and dreams to reach and fulfill before their life had been taken away mercilessly.

He shrugs to his own question, burying his hands deep into his pockets. They _did_ come here on their own will, and if they expected a proper burial to honor their lives, then they would have to be bigger idiots than what he thought them to be. He walks away from the room with a shake of his head, huffing.

Before he closes the door, he turns to look at the pile of decaying bodies, and would, sooner or later, rot into corpses, another person’s – a woman, he thinks – lifeless eyes staring into his.

He hums, shutting the door close.

 _That’s what they get for trying to mess with Killua Zoldyck,_ he rolls his eyes, _as if they ever stood a chance._

* * *

It’s been a week since they left Gaoling. Approximately 7 days, 171 hours, and 10,562 minutes. It’s _not_ that Gon has been counting – it’s just that he’s been restless ever since they set sail, hardly getting a wink of sleep, his head too clouded with thoughts of the Zoldyck. Restlessly, he’s been setting up scenarios of how he and the Zoldyck would meet under the frozen city, rewinding in his head over and over again like some non-stop play. The others had teased him about that, saying he was getting _too_ worked up over the Zoldyck.

How does someone become _too_ worked up over a deadly assassin? Is it even _possible_ to be too worked up on an assassin that has killed more than one could count, an assassin who would eagerly take lives for the shallow exchange of something as materialistic as money, an assassin that hardly blinks as he watches another man lay lifeless on the floor because of his _own hands_? An assassin who, at the age of nine, had _killed_ the Avatar – his father; someone who could have loved him, someone he could have loved – without a bat of his eyes, and with the mere flick of his fingers, and with –

– and there he goes again.

He sighs, drawn-out and loud, leaning uselessly against the wooden walls, and he desperately wishes he could scrape his mind with a sharp knife – stab away any thoughts of the assassin, stab away his consuming hunger for pale hands and pristine eyes, stab away the poison rotting his soul. This poison, this hunger, this _itch –_ it’s devouring the whole of him, lingers in his mind like a tattoo scar, urges him to taste the venom. Gon tries to fight against his instincts, but he’s never done that, never denied himself of anything – he always listened to the voice inside him, always have been a slave to his senses, always, _always_ jumped into the ocean even if others told him to walk… but the Zoldyck, that assassin, is someone who could turn Gon against himself with the mere movement of his hands, or maybe even without if he went that far. The Zoldyck is a wildfire that burned any of those standing in the way of his path, a hurricane that moved the highest mountains to his will, a landslide that had everyone tumbling down with him.

Killua Zoldyck is a vast ocean, and Gon is helpless against the waves pulling him deeper.

He _can’t_ stop thinking of how the Zoldyck’s alabaster skin would look all bruised and burned, residual ashes from his flames surrounding the assassin as if he were a fallen angel, and he’s _disgusted_ at how the flame inside him burns brighter. He feels sick in his own skin, feels as though he were only an imposter stuck in this vessel, feels as though he’s unraveling into the very same kind of monster Zoldyck is.

He stiffens, body frozen in an arch, shock washing over him at the sole thought that endlessly echoes in his head, like a ticklish whisper – too loud to ignore, but too quiet to cease: _the very same kind of monster Zoldyck is._

Shuddering, he stands from the floor in hurried movements, ignoring Zepile’s concerned questions as he rushes to the bathroom, leaning against the long tub of water as he splashes the ice-cold water onto his face – a desperate attempt to clear his thoughts. It works – for the meantime, at least; his skin too numb for his mind to give attention to his pestering thoughts. He lets out a sigh, heavy but relieved, nearly dips his entire face into the freezing water – just to shut the noises out, just for one moment of quiet – but a hand on his shoulder prevents him from doing so. He shakes, and he feels as though he’s been caught red-handed.

“Gon,” it’s Zepile’s voice, he notes, “Are you alright? You looked a little sick back there. Seasickness catching up to you again?”

 _Every_ part of him wishes it was the seasickness, but it’s _not_ – it’s a sickness of his own. He wishes he had something to blame – the ocean, someone else, _anything_ – but the only thing he could point his finger at was himself.

“Yeah,” the lie leaves an odious taste on his tongue, itchy with guilt, and Gon has always loathed lying to anyone, to himself, and the voices inside his head are screaming at him, begging him, to let the truth out from his mouth, to retrieve the lie – but he can’t, not to someone like Zepile, not to someone kind, someone innocent, someone unscathed from the fire, “My head was aching for a bit.”

“Do you want me to tell Leorio?” and, _gods_ , his friend’s concern tugs the strings of his chest, and he wants to close his eyes, fearing as though he would taint everything bright with his own demons lurking in the darkness, “Gon, you look like you’re about to throw up. Fuck, let me go get –”

“I was lying,” Gon says, biting his tongue hard enough for blood to drip from the red flesh, something metallic in his mouth, “I’m sorry, Zepile. I was lying.”

Zepile’s brows furrow, conflicted. “What?” he asks, “What do you mean you’re lying?”

“It’s not from seasickness, Zepile,” Gon says, his voice trembling under Zepile’s _achingly_ soft gaze – too kind, too understanding, too _much_ for someone like Gon, “I’m… I’m not seasick right now. It’s…” Gon struggles to find the right words, “It’s not the sea, Zepile. I wish it was the sea.”

Something about Gon – maybe the tremble of his voice, or the quivering of his lips, or the shaking of his hands – gives him away. “Oh,” Zepile responds simply, understanding dawning on his face, a gentle smile on his face, “Gon, I understand. You’re nervous about Zoldyck,” Gon bites the insides of his cheek – what Zepile said, though it weren’t the words he ached to hear, was still true in its own accord, “I get it, Gon, even I’m having nightmares about him, but as long as we stick to the plan, nothing will go wrong.”

“What if it’s in the plan itself that goes wrong?” Gon asks.

“If all of _you_ stick to the plan,” Zepile says, tone pointed, gaze knowing as he stares at Gon, “Then nothing will go wrong. Of course, there’ll be bumps along the road, but that’s natural,” his hand drops to his side as he walks to the wall, leaning against it, staring into the empty space of the cabin, “Besides, Kurapika’s been practicing his…” Zepile halts in his words, squinting his eyes in thought, “…chain prison? Was that what Kurapika called it?”

Gon laughs, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says, “It’s _Chain Jail_!”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Zepile says, waving his hand around, “Anyways, Kurapika has been training really hard to perfect it, you know – from day to night to day to night,” Zepile rolls his eyes in fondness when he remembers the late nights where Kurapika has been targeting random objects with his _Chain Jail_ , “You should trust in them more, Gon. They won’t disappoint you.”

“I _do_ trust them, Zepile!” _it’s myself that I don’t trust_ , “I really, really do!”

“Then no need to fret!” Zepile says, an easy smile playing on his lips, “Listen, Gon, I know Zoldyck is formidable, but we’re risking all our lives to capture him, aren’t we?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “We could all be where we once were, you know – you in Whale Town, me wandering around the Fire Nation, Leorio traveling to who-knows-where, Kurapika in Meteor Island, and Palm and Bisky back in Gaoling – but we’re _not._ We all chose to be here, Gon, just like you – you don’t need to protect any of us.”

“But I _want_ to,” Gon whines, crossing his arms, “I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

“But we will, Gon,” Zepile says, “We all will – in some way or another – and you know there’s no point in trying to prevent the inevitable. Just play your part in the plan, Gon, and all should be fine.”

He doubts that, but he wouldn’t want to burden Zepile anymore than he has to. “Okay,” he answers simply, “Thanks, Zepile. That really helped.”

“Hey, anytime, Gon,” Zepile says, smiling, “But I’ll go back to my bed. Now that you said it, I think I might have a headache myself.”

Gon nods, and though the fear of the impending prospect of being left alone with his thoughts haunts him, he doesn’t ask Zepile to stay longer, to talk to him more to distract him from the torturous pull of his thoughts, to reassure him of how they would succeed in their plans. He watches Zepile walk out the cabin with a defeated gaze, and the urge to plunge his head deep into the numbing water suddenly strikes him. He shakes his head as an answer to his thoughts – anyone could come in the cabin, and he would rather not answer any of their questions. He feels too tired from his thoughts – something horribly dark, something regrettably rotten, something like Zoldyck – and he aches for the comforting embrace of sleep. A temporary escape from the voices, a brief break from the world’s ghosts.

But he knows he’s not getting it soon.

With a sigh, he walks away from the cabin – the walls look as though they were going to eat him whole if he stayed here a moment longer – and closes the door as quietly as he can, the scene of Zepile snoring into his pillows clear in his peripheral. He knows Zepile could wake up as fast as he could sleep – and Gon greatly envied at how Zepile effortlessly sunk into sleep. He knows it’s stupid of him to be jealous of something so simple but, when you were made out of complications, he supposed it was only natural. Humans – no matter their individualistic complexities – only want what they can’t have. The maddening curiosity to touch what they cannot, the instinctive ache to chase what runs, the harsh desperation to break what is beautiful – it’s natural, always has been ever since the beginning of time. Humans were destructive creatures that set the bomb upon themselves, and Gon was no different.

Sooner or later, he would find himself burning his own skin, and he won’t be able to stop.

His chest heaves with a deep sigh that tumbles from his throat, the fresh air of the sea softly brushing against his face, an evening chill in the atmosphere. He walks to the ship’s railings – which, he soon finds out in their trip, is his favorite spot in the ship – and leans against them, breathes in the scent of the ocean’s cold waters, the calming sound of waves dancing with each other resounding in his ears. His dislike of ships hardly lessened, but the magnetic pull of the ocean clouds his thoughts. Here, against the ship’s railing, is where he feels the most free – not in the open ground, or the bending arenas, or anywhere else. The ocean is his sanctuary, cradling him in waves when no one else would.

“Hey,” he whispers to the ocean, and he pretends as though the waves are the ocean’s way of answering, “I have a question,” another wave that echoes in his ears, “Am I bad for thinking about the Zoldyck like that? Does that make me a monster…” he hesitates, “…or does that make me more human?”

Another wave, louder this time. Gon doesn’t know if that was a yes or a no.

“Isn’t it human nature?” Gon continues on, “Humans are monsters themselves, aren’t they? So, what right do we have to define what’s monstrous and what’s mad and what’s moralistic?” he laughs bitterly, “Nothing, right? We just condemn things that we don’t understand, things that we’re not used to,” he gulps, staring at the ocean, “Heh, guess I’m doing that, too. I wanna stop it, but I can’t help it, you know. It’s a part of me – can’t erase it from myself no matter how much I want to.”

He blinks, the waves washing over one another. Maybe, hunger wasn’t truly humanity’s greatest curse – perhaps, it was awareness, or themselves, or everything else, or nothing at all.

Another sigh, another wave.

The moon – the first waterbender – is luminous against the darkness, and Gon wonders why the moon had given the Zoldycks their ability. He gazes up, eyes fluttering, because how could something so beautiful create something so cruel? He takes a deep breath, walks away from the railing, head aching with another flood of thoughts, and all he wants to do is collapse on a soft bed (well, what he pretends to be a bed, at least) with thin blankets wrapped around him like a lifeline. He walks back to their cabin, quietly opening the door, smiling at the sight before him – Bisky sleeping in the corner, Zepile loudly snoring, Kurapika in a hammock, Leorio sitting against the wall in his sleep, and Palm gracefully lying across the floor. Gon snickers fondly at the sight, and tiptoes around Palm’s body to reach his sleeping bag. Stretching, he lets out a yawn, and drops on the thin blanket like dead weight.

For once, he sleeps.

* * *

Kurapika frowns as he watches Gon sleeping soundly on the bed, snoring lightly against the pillow held tightly to his chest. Throughout the duration of their travel, he’s never seen Gon sleeping without much of a writhe as he is now – unmoving on the bed, but calm breaths from his nose. He’s quite glad, of course, as the bags under Gon’s usually-bright eyes deepen, but it’s nearing two days since he's moved an inch from the bed – the most movement he made during his sleep was wave his arm around uselessly, perhaps chasing away some opponent in his dream. Kurapika wants to wake him, and wonders how he’s still dead asleep, but Leorio says he’s fine, just extreme exhaustion taking over him.

His brows furrow as he tries to think of what could have caused such fatigue on Gon – it could have been the Zoldyck, whom Gon has been fretting over the whole week, and rightfully so, actually. Tales of the Avatar were common, and his clan had greatly adored the Avatar, but he would have never thought Gon – Gon, of all people – would be the son of the last Avatar. He supposes there _is_ an immense power within Gon that Kurapika is yet to see with others, but he still would have never guessed. The Last Avatar, as popular as he had been, hardly had any remaining paintings of how he looked like – many said that he had eyes so bright it could blind, some said his hair was a beautiful mess of brown, others said that he had a bearded face, one comparable to King Netero’s. Kurapika didn’t indulge in them – rumors were useless as they were popular – but, now that he looked at Gon, who must’ve been a spitting image of his father, all he could think of is his conjured image of the last Avatar, Ging.

Not many people knew his name. In some places, it’s been rumored (a walking hypocrite, he is, truly) that saying the last Avatar’s name was taboo, and Kurapika supposed he couldn’t blame them – saying the Avatar’s name, bringing up what should be buried, indulging yourself in what-ifs and could-have-beens, would only prove to be a self-destructive path. A path that Kurapika himself has walked through, and a path that pulled you to your destruction by your own delusions – a path of faux hope.

A knock in the door. “Kurapika?” he hears Leorio say, and he turns around from his position on the chair to face Leorio, “Gon will be fine. You should eat.”

“I know he’ll be fine,” Kurapika answers, “He’s only sleeping, after all, but I’m still concerned.”

“Concerned enough that you refuse to leave his side?” Leorio says, a brow raised, sitting down on the opposite side of Gon’s sleeping bag, “I don’t know how he does that. I can hardly get any sleep from that damn sleeping bag – my back feels like a bitch every time I wake up.”

“There are numerous medical reports of how your back deteriorates as you continue to age,” Kurapika teases, the corner of his lips quirking into a subtle smile, rolling his eyes at Leorio’s sputtered insults, “I don’t know why you get so worked up over your age. It’s nothing embarrassing.”

Leorio huffs, crossing his arms. “Yeah, sure,” he says, trying to keep his yelling voice at a minimum, “Says the one who teases me for it with every chance they get – and I’m not _that_ old, mind you. I’m just twenty-seven, you know.”

“Well, I only tease because of your reactions,” Kurapika remarks, “I really don’t care how old you are, and you shouldn’t too. Age is too simplistic to define someone entirely,” he hums, looking at Gon, “Take Gon, for example. I thought he would be some troublesome, energetic teenager that I would struggle with getting along, given the differences of our surface personalities – but only half of that is true. Gon and I do get along quite well,” he says, “Besides, assumptions are, depending on how you judge them, a shot in the dark. Either you get them correctly, or you’re entirely wrong.”

“I was,” Leorio says, simple but cryptic, “Entirely wrong, I mean. My assumptions.”

“On who?” Kurapika asks.

“You,” and his brows raise in curiosity, never expecting such an answer from Leorio, “Turns out you’re not much of a punk – well, you _are_ a damn brat for keeping on clasping my hands with your damn metals – but you’re… well, much more decent than I expected, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Kurapika hums as he looks at Leorio, thoughtful in his eyes, “I suppose it’s partly my fault for insinuating your assumptions about me, but it is _your_ fault that you fell unto me. If you haven’t, maybe I would have thought better of you, and wouldn’t have put you down to the level of a creep.”

“Yah!” Leorio says, accusingly pointing a finger at him, “Are you saying you’re _not_ thinking better of me? Really? After all the times I let you practice your _Chain Jail_ on me –”

“You know, you need to stop putting words in my mouth,” Kurapika says, clipped, eyes narrowing as he looks at Leorio’s frenzied state, “No, I don’t think badly of you, if that’s what you’re worrying about. As a matter of a fact, you’re held in a higher regard than most people I’ve met.”

Leorio scoffs, and there’s something atypically bitter about him. “Wow, honored to find out that I’m held in _higher regards_ over some strangers you’ve met and probably don’t even remember.”

“Now, when did I say that?” Kurapika says, and it’s not a question, “Really, you should stop putting words in my mouth, and stop thinking that you know everything about me. I’m not a liar. I do appreciate you more than I do with other people – people whom I’ve met and remembered – and if you don’t want to believe that, then don’t. It’s not my problem.”

Leorio glares at him, but his skin flushes all the same. “Why the hell are you so fucking serious?” Leorio spits out, but his tone isn’t venomous, “You talk like you’re straight out of a damn book.”

“And you talk like you’re some pirate,” Kurapika retorts, “Really, Leorio, you should learn to stop making such a big deal over small matters.”

“ _Really_ , Kurapika, if there’s anyone small here, it’s you,” Leorio mocks, and Kurapika’s expression falters at the second-hand embarrassment that floods him at the horrible imitation.

“My height is reasonable – yours is not,” Kurapika says, turning to lean against the wall, Gon’s snores faint in his ears, “You’re freakishly tall, you know?” he whispers, staring at the wooden doors before him, a sudden urge to make everything around him quiet down – to lessen the noises, “It doesn’t make you freakish, no, but your height is. I would be horrified if I was born that tall.”

“You’re just jealous,” Leorio says, mirroring his position – turned against the wall, long legs brought up against his chest, “If I were born as small as you, I’d be jealous of me too. Don’t worry.”

“Of course,” is all Kurapika replies with, eyes fluttering close as he takes in a deep breath. He feels at peace when silence overtakes the remaining of their conversation, and it’s not uncomfortable, actually – at times like these, when enough words has been spoken by deceiving voices, silence is the best speaker. A quiet moment where Kurapika is left alone to his own thoughts, uncaring for the world that moves around him, and if he could, he would spend an eternity in this moment – the echoing waves of the sea racking their ship gently, the beauteous glow of the midday sunlight, the rare silence in even rarer moments.

A small grunt – hardly noticeable, but Kurapika hears it anyway – breaks his reverie of thoughts, looking down at Gon.

“Gon!” Kurapika says, eyes widened, but his lips twisting into a small smile, “You’re awake.”

Gon nods, but he still seems unaware of his surroundings. “Yeah,” he says, a yawn in his voice, “How long did I sleep? It felt like ages.”

“It _was_ ages,” Leorio says, and Kurapika merely rolls his eyes at the exaggeration, “You’ve been asleep for nearly two days, bud.”

“ _WHAT_?”

Kurapika fights his instincts to jump away from Gon, his ears aching from the sheer volume of Gon’s voice. Though he was glad that Gon was finally awake, he definitely missed the silence only a few moments ago.

“Hey, watch the voice,” Leorio scolds – to which Gon addresses with a careless, hurried apology, “But, yeah, you’ve been asleep for nearly two days. Don’t know how you did it, but you did it,” he looks at Gon’s sleeping back almost enviously, “Man, is there something special with your sleeping bag? I could hardly last a few hours sleeping on that flimsy excuse of a bed.”

“It’s not meant to be a bed, Leorio,” Kurapika says, shaking his head before he turns to Gon, concern written all over his expression as he does so, “Are you hungry, Gon? I think Zepile prepared a little something this morning.”

As if on cue, Gon’s stomach grumbles, and that’s enough of an answer for Kurapika. “Yeah, I am,” Gon says, smiling sheepishly, “Is it okay if you get it for me? My body feels a little numb.”

Kurapika nods, standing from his position. “It’s not a problem,” he says, acknowledging Gon’s exclaimed _thanks_ with the simple wave of his hand, back already turned on the both of them. He fondly smiles when he hears Leorio exclaim about Gon’s horrendous sleeping habits before he closes the door shut. He walks to the kitchen, slowing in his steps when spots Bisky.

With a quiet tiptoe, he slowly approaches the kitchen – where Bisky was washing her rocks (or gems, Kurapika really can’t tell) – and quickly clasps the metal around her unsuspecting wrists once he’s made sure that Bisky placed the rock on the wooden table. He wouldn’t want to be in the receiving end of a scolding, and especially with Bisky.

“Kurapika!” Bisky exclaims, growling, turning her head around to glare at Kurapika, “Do that to me one more time, and I’ll punch you to the North Pole so you could practice it on Zoldyck himself!”

Kurapika laughs, quickly unclasping the chains around Bisky’s wrist. “Sorry,” he says, walking to the kitchen to prepare Gon’s meal, “I need as much practice as I can get – as an assassin, I’m certain that Zoldyck could sense me even if I’m far enough,” he pours a hefty amount of sea slug soup into the bowl, “I wouldn’t want to risk anything.”

“Trust me, Kurapika, you won’t,” Bisky assures him, her lips twisted into a gentle smile, “You just need to get Palm close enough so she could work her magic.”

Kurapika nods stiffly. “Yes, I know,” he says, walking away from the kitchen, “Thank you for your confidence in me, but don’t think I’ll cease the random _Chain Jail_ attacks. I still need practice.”

“Well, don’t do it while I’m cleaning my jewels, brat!”

Kurapika laughs, takes one last look of the kitchen before he walks away to the cabin. “I’ll be sure to remember that!” he says.

Kurapika opens the door. “Here, Gon,” he says, closing the door with a gentle kick before he proceeds to walk to Gon, handing him the bowl of soup, “It’s sea slug soup. Zepile said something about it being your favorite.”

“Yeah, it’s delicious!” Gon yells happily, slurping his soup with vigor.

“Kurapika, guess what he did? Last time we were on a ship, when Zepile brought us shit soup, Gon had pretended the undercooked soup was full of sea slugs! He ate a whole piece of raw chicken! Of course, it resulted in –”

“ _Leorio_ , I thought we agreed never to speak about that again!”

“Hey, I never agreed on anything –”

It was at that moment – while Leorio and Gon had been busy arguing about their escapades – when Kurapika had decided that, maybe, the noise wasn’t as bad as he thought.

* * *

Frosty landscapes with looming ice cliffs, gates of thick ice protecting the city from foreign threats, and pesky intruders. Gon, at that moment, was quite glad their seal – a royally-approved one, that is – is within their grasp, looking down on the encompassing ocean, shivers running down his spine as he imagines himself drowning, pushed into the water forcibly by the guards of the Northern Water Tribe. Finally, they’ve arrived – the last two weeks had been nothing but a torment, except for the memorable moments sewn in forgettable ones, his anticipation taking the best of him.

The sharp sound of a horn ringing is a signal to halt. Their captain – well, the one who sails the boat, really – quickly follows the order.

“What is your business here?” the guard asks, his voice booming.

Palm shows them the seal, its symbol large enough that it would be recognized by anyone, even from a distance. “We’re participating in the hunt for Killua Zoldyck, and our seal was personally given by King Netero, king of Omashu.”

The gates are effortlessly bended open by the surrounding waterbenders, and Gon marvels at the sight before him. Glacial architectures that rival that of Ba Sing Se’s, a wondrous world in all shades of blue – from the boundless ocean, to the vast blanket of the sky, to the city’s ornate framework.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes out, then tilts his head, thoughtful, “Leorio, didn’t you come from here?”

Leorio shakes his head as an answer, eyes alight in awe as he takes in the view before them. “No, I grew up in the Southern Water Tribe,” he says, “But I did visit Agna Qel’a during my travels. Its beauty never gets old.”

“Knuckle and Shoot are waiting for us by the dock,” Palm says, handing the seal back to Bisky, “They should take us to their quarters immediately. More time for us to prepare, then. They’ll be recruiting Zoldyck only a few days away from today.”

Knuckle and Shoot, apparently, like Palm, worked under the king’s guards – under Morel, he thinks, thoughts still foggy to remember the exact details that Palm has explained to them the day before. His head is caught in a maze as he tries to find reasons of why so many people were involved in their hunt – _theirs_ , specifically, because, as far as he knows, they aren’t aiding anyone else – but he doesn’t try to ask any more questions. To go against someone like Zoldyck, to even attempt to _capture_ him, Gon knows he should be grateful for all their assistance – the king’s, Bisky’s, Palm’s, and the other two’s.

His heart hammers against his ribcage, like a bird trying to escape from the confines of a cage, and sweat gathers around the skin of his palm at the thought that, somewhere right now, the Zoldyck is breathing the same air as him, looking at the same sky, at the same ocean.

Somewhere right now, as he gazes up at the sky like some star-struck child, the Zoldyck is mercilessly taking someone else’s life with a brush of his hands. Somewhere right now, as he’s aboard on a ship, the Zoldyck stealing someone else’s father, someone else’s light. Somewhere right now, as he breathes in the salt air, the Zoldyck breathes in the sickening scent of blood, the crimson paint dirtying his alabaster skin, soft like silk, spotless of any scars – a blinding contrast to what’s hidden in the Zoldyck’s rotting soul, lion-vultures flying over it as if it were decaying on the ground.

Gon squints his eyes.

The ship halts, the anchor already digging into the sand underneath the sea.

Another shaky breath.

He walks across the wooden plank, relief washing through him in waves when the sturdy, unshaking land is under his feet. He can hear the others stumble behind him, exclaiming words that mumble as they reach Gon’s ears, too focused on finding Shoot and Knuckle – a tall, pale man, and another man with rococo hair, as what Palm described them.

They shouldn’t be hard to miss, given Palm’s harsh words for Knuckle’s hair.

“ _PALM!_ ”

Gon nearly flinches at the sudden burst of voice, and, as the man makes his way into his view, he quickly understands why Palm seemed so… well, _criticizing_ of the man’s hairstyle. It wasn’t to say it didn’t fit the man – on the contrary, it actually _did_ fit Knuckle – it just seemed too… out-of-place, and especially in such a place of traditionalistic values like Agna Qel’a.

“ _Knuckle_ ,” Palm hisses under her breath, squeezing Knuckle’s right ear in a painful grip as she drags him away from the dock – to which the group hurriedly follows – while she brushes off looks from passersby with an embarrassed smile, more of a grimace, really, “Could you please learn to keep your fucking voice down? We’re not in Omashu, alright?” she tightens her grip on Knuckle’s ears when she receives no response, pulling out a yelp from Knuckle, “So zip down your big mouth!”

“Palm, calm down on the big guy,” Bisky says, snickering, nose buried in another… erotica, so it seems, “Nice seeing you again, Knucks,” she and Knuckle fist-bump. The first time that they had met under the skies of Omashu, on a mission from the king, and they had bonded like lost siblings who, at last, had found each other.

“Oh, oh, let me introduce the brat I’ve been training,” Bisky pulls Gon to her side without much difficulty, “Gon, meet Knuckle Bine! Knuckle, meet Gon Freecss.”

None of the two – Knuckle and Shoot, the latter at a distance from the group – flinch at his last name, and he assumes they’ve already known even longer than he did. Perhaps, the moment that he stepped in Omashu, the king had already planned this all – and, whatever the king was planning, whatever the king had set in his mind, Gon isn’t certain he wants to be a part of it. A mere puppet under the puppeteer’s commanding hands.

He smiles, instead, wide and toothy – this isn’t the time for conspiracies or conflicts.

“Hello! Nice to meet you,” he shakes Knuckle’s hands, “You know, your hair doesn’t actually look that bad. A bit odd, sure, but it’s sort of nice to look at!” he takes a closer look, “Hey, I think my hair has the same shade as yours!”

“You know what, I like you, kid!” Knuckle says, smile bright, leaning down to ruffle Gon’s hair, laughing at the latter’s reaction, “I see I’m not the only who’s hair-crazed here.”

“You _are_ the only one,” Palm retorts, scoffing, “Gon just doesn’t like it when someone messes his hair.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Knuckle says, nodding eagerly as he points at himself, and then at Gon, “Hair- _crazy._ ”

“Okay, okay, enough of your hair escapades,” Bisky cuts in, tugging Knuckle to the others, “Let me introduce you to our other companions.”

“Leorio,” he says, bringing out his hand, “It’s nice to finally have a face to your name.”

Knuckle shakes his hand, firm, a blush forming on his cheekbones. “Heh,” he answers, retracting his hand to brush the back of his neck in an attempt of humility, “Did Bisky really talk about me that much?”

“No, actually, it was Palm,” Kurapika answers, shrugging, “Kurapika, by the way, but the first time that she did mention you, all she talked about was your horrendous hairstyle, and we all were dying to know how it truly looked like,” he looks at Knuckle, gaze thoughtful, “Not quite what I expected, but it suits you, actually.”

A smile breaks out in Knuckle’s face, and it’s infectious. “Thank _you_ ,” he says in earnest, before turning briefly to glare at Palm, “You see that, Palm? Not one single person here – except your jealous ass, of course – thinks my hair is hideous.”

Palm snarls, nearly pounces on the smug-faced Knuckle. “How _dare_ you think _I_ would ever be jealous of that mistake,” she brushes her thick hair away from her face, murder intent in her gaze as she stares at Knuckle, “And, just to say, I’m not the _only_ who dislikes your hairstyle.”

Knuckle gasps, offended, jaw parted in shock. “ _No._ ”

Palm only smirks at the distress that seems to have befallen on Knuckle. “Actually, they told me themselves –”

“ _SHOOT_?”

The ghostly pale man, leaning against the ice wall, shadows cast over his face. “Why do you always assume it’s me?” Shoot drawls in a dull tone, his voice a monotonous gray – painfully in contrast to Knuckle’s, bursting at the seams with colors that rival a rainbow’s, “We should really get going now. The sun’s setting, and the snow festival should start anytime soon.”

Gon perks up at that. “Snow festival?”

Bisky yawns, eyes fluttering open. “This is the time of the year with the biggest snowfall, and the Northerners celebrate it with this masquerade-like festival,” she pauses to stretch her arms, “You have to wear some mask and dance around with hundreds of strangers,” Bisky shakes her head, shudders at the prospect of letting random strangers – who knows what they could be doing with their hands – touch _her_ , “Icky.”

“Is it okay if I come along?” Gon asks, excited.

Knuckle and Shoot share a look as they gaze over Gon’s… well, er, questionable outfit – a set of maroon garments encased in horrendously bright green coat. Knuckle grimaces – if he went to the snow festival with _that_ outfit put on, he would be the laughing stock of the whole crowd which, certainly, isn’t the most wonderful experience. Knuckle knows from first-hand, really.

“Gon,” Zepile says, deadpanning, “You can’t go to one of the biggest festivals in the Northern Water Tribe with those terrible clothes. You’d be disrespecting them and their culture.”

“But I’ve got nothing else to wear,” Gon says, frowning, “And, besides, this is your coat.”

Zepile huffs, crossing his arms. “Then, give it back.”

“There’s no need to worry, Gon!” Knuckle says, “Shoot has spare clothes – and the tailor got his size wrong, like two sizes smaller than what it should’ve been, so it should fit you alright!”

Gon pumps his fist into the air, jumping excitedly, and Knuckle can’t help his fond smile at the sight.

“Well, is anyone else going to the snow festival, or should we just lead the rest of you to the quarters?” Shoot asks, looking over the rest of the group, “We should really be heading out soon.”

“Mm, no,” Bisky answers for the rest, her hands on her hips, “Aside from Gon, we’re all pretty worn-out. Two weeks out in the sea, and sleeping on the floor with some flimsy blanket, makes me feel like I’m about to collapse soon,” she yawns, rubbing her eyes open, “Please tell me there’s enough space for us all.”

“Well, there’s enough mattresses for you all to sleep on,” Shoot says.

“Thank the fucking gods,” Palm remarks, hands held up high in the air as she starts to walk, “Could we hurry the fuck up? I think my legs are about to give up on me.”

“Same,” Leorio says, yawning, walking besides Palm, frowning when the others are still stuck in their positions, clapping his hands to snap their attention to him, “Come on now, assholes, the road won’t walk by itself!”

They all burst in laughter – and there’s nothing particularly funny about what Leorio said, not really – but it’s the feeling is freeing, and for a fraction of a moment, they lose themselves in everything that shouldn’t matter, and lets go of everything that does.

* * *

Gon stares at himself, his reflection foggy against the icy walls, unsure what to make of it.

Dressed in tints of azure, fur lining the ends of his clothes, intricate layers of clothes upon each other, a dark mask hiding the half of his face, and Gon wonders how Northerners could bear this kind of clothing – he feels as though a weight pulled on his back with the amount of blue clothes that Knuckle had stuffed him in, threatening to push him onto floor if he didn’t balance his steps well enough. He supposed he didn’t look too bad – the clothes framed his body well enough that he looked decent, and his tan skin against the deep blue reminded him of the way the afternoon sun thawed into the ocean, melting into an incandescent, every time that it set.

“Yah, Gon, come on!” Knuckle calls out, and the reverie Gon has trapped himself in breaks into shards, lips breaking into a smile at the sight of Knuckle clinging around Shoot, “The dancing should start soon – which, really, is the highlight of every snow festival!”

It’s been a few hours since they’ve arrived in the center of Agna Qel’a where the snow festival is annually hosted – the rest of their group well-rested in the quarters – and only now does Gon realize that he’s interrupting what was meant to be a date between Knuckle and Shoot. He never really expected it, considering Knuckle and Shoot’s contrasting personalities, but every time that one of them would do something foolish enough to laugh about, their eyes would meet and muffled laughter would be shared between them, happiness shining in their gazes.

Gon has never been too curious to love or be loved, and though many girls from Whale Town had asked to spend time with him, he never felt the ache that poets would write about – the ache to have someone else’s skin cradled against your own, slowly shaping into a sole silhouette where no one begins and no one ends; to have someone else’s lips brush against the faded bruises on your arms, kissing away the stories stuck in your scars; to have someone loving the entirety of you, despite the demons the lurk deep into the darkness.

He’s never felt that ache – _until_ now, that is. Now that he’s seen what love meant to other people, what love could _mean_ to him.

“Come on now, Gon,” he hears Shoot say, and he thinks that Shoot must’ve had too much – something too jovial in his voice, “You’re missing out all the fun. Come _on_ , the music’s ‘bout to start!”

Gon’s now certain Shoot had too many drinks in one sitting – because he refuses to let someone like Shoot, all broad and brooding, tell _him_ that he’s missing out. He stands from the chair, and marches to them in long strides. He realizes that the large crowd is separated into several groups, around each other like circles, and he hardly has time to compose himself before the music starts, ringing loudly in his ears.

The moments become a blur.

He remembers being egged on – by strangers or Knuckle and Shoot, he doesn’t know – and his body moves to its own accord. They dance in pairs, and now Gon understands why Knuckle and Shoot had meant to attend the festival together. A woman in bright blues eagerly dances in his arms, and though Gon does _not_ have a clue of the specific steps, he feels as though he were standing on the edge of the world, dancing out whatever was left of him. The blonde woman laughs, and Gon hardly has the time to appreciate her intricate braid and her long lashes.

Suddenly, the continuous patterns in the drums drop, and he finds himself twirled around the circle. The image of the blonde woman is quickly replaced by a dark-haired man, his unblemished skin shining under the moonlight’s gaze, sweet lips parted in a toothy smile. Gon wonders for a brief second what falling in love really felt like before he’s swept away by the man, long, delicate fingers gripping his shoulders.

Then the dark-haired man turns into a sweet brunette, and then into a woman in pale blue, and then into another blonde dressed in black. The festival fades into a hue of colors and faceless strangers, and _gods_ Gon has never felt like this – so lightheaded, so free, so _happy_ that time is forgotten, and thoughts are ceased, and he only lives in the moments.

Everything else is a blur around him – a blob of lights, and blues, and faces – and he tells himself this is his last dance, the reminder of his aching limbs lingering.

Pale fingers trace his arms, and Gon can’t deny the trail of goosebumps left in the wake of the stranger’s fleeting touch – both the adrenaline and the alcohol make him dizzy, and he forgets about his partner left waiting in his arms. He shakes his head at his own foolishness, swaying mindlessly to the music echoing in his ears, and he feels the stranger stiffly move along with him.

 _Tense and rigid_ , the sober part of his mind notes, the stranger a statue in his arms. He frowns. He doesn’t like that – he wants everyone else to enjoy this festival, and not even this cold stranger is an exception.

Gon slows down his movements, gives himself a few seconds to gather the mess in his mind. His lips twists into a bright grin, tilting his head back down to meet the stranger’s –

_Oh._

His breath is lost in his throat, and the stranger – masked underneath a cerulean shade, the same hue of blue framing his lithe body in delicate lines, skin pale enough to rival the snow beneath their feet – shines too brightly underneath the moon’s embrace. And, _oh,_ he realizes in a numb thought, eyes taking in whatever they could from the stranger in such a rapid pace that he forgets –

_Ocean eyes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notice how gon compares killua to the ocean, and notice how much gon says he adores the ocean, and notice how thats a _bit_ gay
> 
> n e wayssss, thank u sm for reading!!! tytysm 4 ur kudos & comments, i (so v much!) appreciate them!!<3


	6. nec vidisse semel satis est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **nec vidisse semel satis est,** _nor is it enough to have once seen him_

_Fragments of the ocean locked in those eyes,_ and Gon is certain that, if he stares longer, he’ll find himself drowning in the stranger’s steel gaze. His heart thrums against his chest as he notices the stranger’s silver-white hair, his fingers itching to tuck the messy strands behind the stranger’s ears. His breath is caught in the mid of his throat, and he can hardly hear the music outside the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. A rosy hue dusts the stranger’s high cheekbones, cerulean gaze flickering under the starry sky, and his mask mirroring the ocean’s shades. The stranger embodied the ocean, but felt like the moon underneath his gaze.

The stranger ends his trance of thoughts with the sharp snap of his fingers, a deep scowl on the stranger’s lips, pink and pretty, and only now has Gon noticed they stopped swaying along with the music. They’re in the middle of another circle, but he can’t find it in himself to care about the others’ questioning glances – right now, right where they were standing, Gon wants to live out every second of this moment without anyone else. Just him and the stranger.

“What the hell are you staring at, _idiot_?” the stranger hisses under his breath, and Gon gulps at the stranger’s low voice, every word like silk in his ears, “Can you _stop_ staring at me so fucking weirdly? What, do I have something on my face?” when Gon still doesn’t answer, slacked jaw and wide eyes, the stranger groans, throaty, and suddenly the stranger’s elegant fingers slip from his shoulders to jab at his chest, “Answer me, you moron!”

Gon gathers himself enough to speak a coherent sentence. “You’re so beautiful.”

The stranger’s eyes widen in shock at Gon’s admission, the flush on his cheeks deepening into scarlet, and whacks Gon on his head. “ _What the hell_ ,” the stranger is angry, but Gon hardly notes the stinging on his forehead, head brimming with the images of the stranger’s reddening cheeks and furious scowl, “Why the fuck would you say that!”

Gon tilts his head in confusion – why would he _not_?

“Because it’s true?” he asks, brows furrowed.

“ _What the actual fuck_ ,” the stranger whispers, horrified, but the high flush on his cheeks tells Gon otherwise, “Are you fucking _demented_?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Gon answers in earnest, “ _But_ if I have to be demented to call you pretty, then I guess I am,” he takes a moment to look at the stranger’s eyes – angry, but alluring, “I really, _really_ am.”

The stranger’s glare deepens, sharp enough to kill – and maybe Gon would have felt threatened if it weren’t for the stranger’s reddened face. “Stop talking,” the stranger says, hostile, “Actually, just stop. Stop talking, and stop looking at _me_ ,” Gon averts his gaze, focuses it on the stranger’s hair instead, adorably mussed up, “No, no, you’re not allowed to look at my hair either!”

Gon frowns, but complies, looking up at the sky. “Why can’t I look at you?”

“Because _you_ are an embarrassing idiot who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut,” the stranger says, “You know what, I should just leave you here and dance with another person who _doesn’t_ say any weird fucking shit.”

Gon smiles – despite the stranger’s threat to leave him, the stranger stands on his ground, hardly making any plans to move. “Okay,” he says slowly, dragging the words out, “What do I do so I can look at you again?”

It’s dumb – this whole ordeal, he knows – but that thought hardly processes in his mind, his attention fixated on the fluff of white hair in his peripheral, one that he wants to bury his fingers in and cradle with the both of his hands. 

“Stop calling me that… word,” the stranger says, huffing.

“Beautiful?” he asks, bewildered.

“ _Yes_ ,” the stranger hisses, oddly feline.

“But why?” Gon asks, and it’s not to tease, the confusion in his voice genuine, “You really _are_ beautiful.”

Gon’s breath hitches when he feels a pair of lips grazing his ear, warm breath ghosting the shell of his ears, cold hands holding the side of his shoulders in a tight grip. “Do you want to…” shudders run down his spine at how the stranger’s voice tickles his ear, but his dreamy reverie of the stranger’s honeyed voice shatters into pieces when the stranger suddenly raises the volume of his voice, coaxing a yelp out of Gon, “…fucking _die_?”

Gon nearly flinches away, suddenly understanding why the others had scolded him about _his_ voice. “Okay, okay,” he relents, holding his arms in surrender, “Fine, I won’t call you that anymore, but don’t assume I’ll stop thinking it,” the stranger sputters, and – with the lack of threats from the stranger – he assumes that it’s safe to look down, chest fluttering at the stranger’s harsh gaze and flushed cheeks, “I have a question, though!”

The stranger rolls his eyes, and Gon notices with surprise that they’re swaying to the music again. “Just get on with it,” the stranger mumbles, scoffing, “You’ll probably never shut up about it, anyways.”

Gon laughs at that, chest rumbling. “Yeah, you’re right!” he admits, smiling, “What’s your name?”

The stranger stiffens in his hold, movement slowing down, and something akin to fear passes through the stranger’s eyes. The silence between them lingers so long that Gon doesn’t expect an answer, merely swaying slowly to the music, accepts that this stranger would just be another passing moment, until the stranger awkwardly shifts his gaze, clearing his throat.

“Lua,” the stranger – _Lua_ – answers, “It’s, uhm, Lua. My name.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” Gon says, awestruck, and in the drunken haze of his mind, he forgets the weight his words would carry, and says carelessly, “I’m Gon.”

Lua’s gaze narrows, and it takes all of Gon’s restraint to reprieve himself from retrieving his words. “I don’t remember asking, stupid,” Lua says under his breath, his grip on Gon’s shoulders tightening, nails clawing on the cloth, and suddenly, like a strike of lightning, his deep scowl twists into a teasing smirk, “No, actually, it’s nice to have a stupid name to match that stupider face.”

Gon pouts, swirling Lua in his arms merely for the fun of it, hardly dodging the whack Lua aims at his head as soon as he faces him. “Lua, that’s a bit mean,” he says, dragging the syllables into a whine.

“And you’re a bit stupid,” Lua retorts, rolling his eyes – which, Gon has noticed, is one of his trademark habits, “But you don’t find me whining about it, do you?”

“Actually, _you_ were whining about it,” Gon comments thoughtfully, tilting his head, “You even stopped me from looking at you because of it.”

“No one stupid deserves to look at me,” Lua says, eyes narrowed into a glare as he meets Gon’s eyes, “And don’t play all smartass on me, _Gon._ ”

A thrill tickles down his back at the sound of his name rolling off Lua’s voice – melodious, and raspy, and deep. “Yeah,” Gon says, and he’s as breathless as he feels, “Lua’s right. He’s too beautiful for random strangers to be looking at his face – random, weird, _undeserving_ strangers.”

Lua’s face pinches up at his words – almost adorably so – and Gon, at first, thinks that the latter would smack him for his words once more, the _‘B word’_ slipping off his tongue without the thought of the reactions it’d coax from Lua. “ _You_ are a part of that random, weird, undeserving strangers, you know,” Lua says, huffing, tipping his face up to avoid Gon’s too-vivid gaze.

“I know,” Gon says, blinking, smiling when Lua looks up at him, surprised at the undeniable sincerity twinged in his voice, “I don’t think anyone deserves to see your face, Lua.”

Lua laughs, but it’s not humorous – it’s a bitter sound that grazes Gon’s ears, a cynical echo. “Yeah,” he breathes out, speckles of regret, and hatred, and loathe swimming in the blue of his eyes, “I think so, too,” he gulps, licking his upper lip in a nervous habit, “There’re many people who don’t deserve to see my face, Gon, but still do.”

Gon frowns, sensing a hidden meaning beneath the surface of Lua’s words, but he forces a smile, trying to brighten the daunting atmosphere that suddenly surrounds them. “That’s _exactly_ what I’ve been trying to say, Lua!” he exclaims.

Lua snorts, rolling his eyes – and the vulnerability in his voice only proved to be momentary, an involuntary reaction to Gon’s words that must’ve touched upon something deep. “If that’s the case, you should stop looking at my face, then,” Lua says, snickering at the furrow of Gon’s brows, uncharacteristic, “Gods, I’m fucking kidding, man. Chill out.”

At that, Gon’s chest heaves with a breath of relief, fearing the prospect too much to notice the sarcasm in Lua’s voice as he said those words. “Oh, good,” he says, “I really didn’t want to stop looking at your eyes, Lua. They’re so beau –”

Lua hits him, scowling now. “What did I say about that word, idiot?” Lua snaps, gaze fixed on the unmoving ground, “And can you _try_ to think before you speak? I, unlike you, have dignity to spare, so shut up before I make you.”

Gon hums, frowning when he hears the telltale drop of the drums, a sound he’s heard every time he switched partners, and he finds his grip tightening on Lua. “You’re already making me,” he remarks, shrugging.

Lua stares at him, a growl rumbling in his chest. “Can you stop being such a fucking smartass –” Lua’s words are cut off when Gon pulls him closer to his chest, yelping at their sudden proximity, heart pounding, “W-wha –” he clears his throat, cursing himself for stammering, “ _What_ the fuck are you doing?”

“Do you wanna stop dancing?” Gon whispers to his ears, more as an offer than a question.

Lua tries to pull away, but Gon’s grip is unrelenting. “With you?” Lua snorts, still cocky despite the overt reddening of his cheeks, a vivid scarlet against ashen planes, “Certainly.”

Gon lets go of his grip on Lua, tightly grasping his hand instead. He ignores Lua’s startled yelps and stammered-out protests as he maneuvers themselves out of the dancing crowd, wincing when curious hands start to tug on them, urging them to dance with the crowd. With self-restraint, he sneaks out of their sticky hands, pulling along a bewildered Lua, and quickly runs to the table – one that he shared with Knuckle and Shoot. He sits on a chair, regretfully letting go of Lua’s hand, pleased to find an assortment of food, mostly Northern cuisine, laid down on their table, uneaten.

He pats on one of the chairs – the one nearest to his, of course – for Lua to sit on. “Sit,” he says simply, his smile so wide that his cheeks are straining with the effort.

Lua glowers, ignoring Gon’s request. “Are you _crazy_?” Lua exclaims without thought for the crowd in the background, the velvet voice turning shrill against his ears, and Gon, once more, realizes why the others had been so adamant about him keeping his voice in check, “Who said that _I_ wanted to stop dancing?” before Gon could attempt to open his mouth, Lua glares, gripping the edge of the table in his hand, “Since you’re so fucking deaf, I said that I wanted to stop dancing with _you._ Not dancing altogether!”

“Oh, and because you’d really rather be dancing with them?” Gon says with a raised brow, pointing to the alcohol-crazed crowd, cheers and music blending into one another, a strain in the ears.

“Fuck you,” Lua growls out, but begrudgingly takes a seat – the farthest chair from his, much to Gon’s apparent chagrin, “Who knew someone could be both an idiot and a smartass at the same time?” he scoffs as he glances at Gon, shaking his head, “You’re a fucking wonder, Gon – and, no, I don’t mean that in a good way.”

“Hey, at least, you’re starting to warm up to me!” Gon says, clapping his hands, eating a spoonful of fried fish, “Lua, I have a question!”

“Whatever,” Lua mutters under his breath, tone irritated, but his eyes shining in delight as he takes a bite of a chocolate dessert – a cake, Gon faintly thinks, but the shape is too odd to even mirror a cake’s.

“Why were you so angry when I complimented you a while ago?” Gon raises his arms in surrender when Lua turns to scowl at him, shrugging, “I just want to know.”

“Because _you_ were a stupid weirdo who has no boundaries,” Lua says curtly, snorting, “Still are, actually.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gon starts, humming, fingers drumming against the table, “You know, you really didn’t answer my question, Lua.”

“ _HUH_?” Lua aggressively licks the chocolate off the metal spoon, glowering as he does so, “What do you mean I didn’t answer your stupid question! I literally fucking did, you idiot! What, do you want me to repeat what I said, grandpa?” Lua pauses, taking another bite off the dessert, “ _Be-cause-you-were_ –”

“No, it’s not that,” Gon says, lashes fluttering as he looks at Lua, trying to discern any secrets from his teasing smirk to his vast eyes.

“How do _you_ know –”

“Lua,” Gon says slowly, “It’s okay. Don’t worry, I won’t force you,” and he desperately wishes his voice was as soothing as he thought – though Lua didn’t show it, Gon could feel the panic brewing within him, and he didn’t want to force Lua over the line, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Lua’s eyes widen in shock, but it quickly dissipates into the familiar shine of irritation. “Shut up,” Lua says, “It takes more than that to make _me_ uncomfortable,” he scoffs, leaning back against his chair, crossing his arms behind his back, “You wanna know so bad? Fine, I’ll tell you.”

Lua treats himself another sip of wine, eyes dulling as he looks at Gon, a visible gulp in his throat. “I’m not used to compliments,” he whispers into the air after a few moments of silence, and he’s unsure if his words had even breached Gon’s ears, “Well, not that kind of compliments, anyway,” he shifts on his seat, suddenly uneasy, nibbling on his lips as he looks around, trying to avoid Gon’s penetrating gaze, “I’m always praised for what I do, not what I look like, so. So, it was weird, and… I guess, well, I guess I didn’t know how to respond to it,” he looks up at Gon through lidded eyes, pausing, “And, besides, only a few people praise me, and it’s not because I’m beautiful. It’s never, _never_ because of that. Always – _just_ – because of what I do. Just that.”

“What you do must be very special, then,” Gon says, his smile strained.

Lua scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “If you only knew, Gon,” Lua says, and laughs the same way he did before – a hopeless, but bitter sound, something that gnawed your heart until it tore open by its own – frowning as he stares at the distorted reflection of himself in the wine glass, “I’m not beautiful, Gon.”

Gon swallows down his persuasions and reassurances, knowing this isn’t a matter of insecurity – it’s something deeper than that, something heavier on the shoulders. “Why not?” he asks, and it’s simple enough, but Lua’s gaze is heavy on his face, a pressing weight.

“Would you still call a rotten apple beautiful?”

Lua’s words tickle something at the back of his mind, and he _knows_ he should remember something. But his mind is filled with memories of blurred lights, and faceless partners, and ocean eyes. He bounces back from one thing to another in perfect clarity, but his mind is blank when he tries to search for whatever it is he meant to remember. Suddenly, as he gazes up at Lua’s face, an alarm rings in his head, and he squints his eyes, heart pounding against his chest as he stares at Lua’s cryptic eyes, and there’s something eerily familiar with Lua – something that he should remember, something that he should say. Just _something_ , anything.

_Rotten, rotten, rotten…_

As Gon opens his mouth to let the words flow out, the sudden call of Lua’s name rings in their ears.

“That’s my sibling,” Lua stands up, flattening any creases from his garments as he does so, and Gon is confused at his own relieved sigh, “I’ve got to go.”

Gon forces a smile, and he hopes it doesn’t look as strained as he thinks it does. “It was great meeting you, Lua.”

Lua smirks, and Gon’s heart stutters at the sight. “Can’t say the same for myself, _Gon_.”

As he watches Lua’s pale silhouette fade into the moonlight, Lua’s words reiterate in his mind in repeating echoes.

_Would you still call a rotten apple beautiful?_

* * *

_I made a mistake,_ is the first thought that rams into Killua’s head as he startles awake, back stiffened into an arch.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, wincing at the own taste of his mouth. He lets out a groan, ignoring the lingering ache in his throat as he does so, and the urge to have the darkness swallow him whole has never been stronger. His hair is mussed up against the silk-covered pillows, and his attire from yesterday is still suited on him. He groans at the thought, palming his hand over his face. He doesn’t need _another_ reminder of yesterday’s mistakes – his waist still tingles with the ghost touch of warm hands, and the way the man uttered his name (at least, the half of it), and the way all he could think about was the man, and the way that he refused to utter his name. It’s a promise he made to himself as he stepped into his bedroom, a deceptive remnant of his self-control.

 _You won’t say it_ , he repeats, a mantra in his head as he stands from his bed to clean himself up, _you won’t say it because you’re Killua Zoldyck, and Killua Zoldyck doesn’t lose to some fucking weirdo loser who has not an ounce of filter on his mouth._

His breath stutters as his reflection stares at him from the mirror, blue eyes staring into his own.

_Don’t say it, Killua. Don’t say it. Don’t say it –_

Killua opens his mouth, and he listens to his thoughts a little too late. “Gon,” he whispers to no one in particular, says it for the sake of saying it, and the syllable slides off his mouth smoothly. His mind – his own enemy, really – conjures an image of a man with a blindingly bright grin, and eyes that mirrored the warmth of sunlight, and a voice that Killua ached to hear again.

He freezes up at his own thoughts, and the desire to bury his head into the ice wall suddenly rushes through him. He almost does.

_Fuck._

He frowns. Well, he wouldn’t be doing – _feeling_ – all of this if he only didn’t meet Gon, and there was only one reason for that.

He storms out of his room in silent footsteps, marching into the room adjacent to his. He forces the door open, breaking through the poorly-placed locks, and dodges the knife Kalluto throws with an easy duck. He ignores Kalluto’s narrow glare, and collapses on the bed, facing the ceiling with his hand thrown over his head, only turning to glare at his sibling.

“ _This_ –” Killua starts, hissing, pointing at himself, and then to Kalluto, “– is all _your_ fault!”

For a fraction of a moment, Kalluto frowns in confusion, head tilted as they try to weigh the meaning of Killua’s words, before a bright understanding crosses across their face, the corner of his lips quirking into a tiny, nearly unnoticeable smirk. “Let me guess,” Kalluto says, their voice calm, “This is about the mystery guy you ran into yesterday, but now _cannot_ stop thinking about?” Kalluto’s brows raise in amusement when Killua lets out a distressed groan – a wordless answer, “Spirits, brother, you sound like a troubled schoolgirl.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kalluto Zoldyck!” Killua exclaims, middle finger raised in a vulgar attempt of retaliation, “Remember, _you’re_ the one who made me go to that stupid snow festival of yours!”

“Well, I’m not the one who killed an intruder in the messiest way possible, merely to get revenge for the interruption of my dearest sleep, and then begged their sibling to clean up their mess in exchange of a favor for the said sibling, and _then_ did the favor, and then left their sibling alone because some stranger called them beautiful, and _then_ –”

Killua cuts off Kalluto’s rambling with an incessant growl, grabbing a pillow and throwing it to their face. “You know what?” Killua starts, throwing another pillow to Kalluto, and he knows that Kalluto is letting himself be hit by poorly-aimed pillows, something they could dodge from a mile afar, “You fucking suck.”

Kalluto shrugs, gaze thoughtful. “I’m only telling the truth, Killua,” they say, “If Illumi finds out, you know there’ll be consequences.”

Killua stiffens at the mention of his older brother, the weight on his shoulders crashing down, pulling him along. “You won’t tell him, will you?” he asks, and the anger from his voice fades away into unsurety, fingers twitching as he clutches on the sheets in a death grip, voice in an anxious tone as he looks over at Kalluto’s impassive face, “I know I went against the rules, but you won’t tell him, right? Right, Kal?”

“No,” Kalluto answers, much to Killua’s relief, “I wouldn’t want to brew up unnecessary drama, and it’s as unnecessary as the man, brother. Whomever the man was, whatever his name was, you know it won’t matter to you in the long run. At least, Illumi won’t let it,” they stand from the bed, starting to throw knives into the pairs of dartboards plastered on their walls, “I don’t really have an opinion on that rule. For me, I don’t think a romantic partner would be distracting, but I suppose Illumi had invented that rule in the expense of himself. Does he not have a lover? Back in Gaoling – an underground fighter, I think?”

Killua snorts at that. “Yeah, Illumi’s one big fucking hypocrite,” he says, eyes squinted when Kalluto’s knives hit the center of a specific dartboard, slicing through the thick ice walls, “They have an on-and-off thing going on. Illumi tells me about him sometimes,” he purses his lips, trying to search his mind of the man’s (Illumi’s, not his) name, “Hisoka is his name, I think. I don’t know. It’s been so long since Illumi talked to me about him.”

Kalluto shakes their head, throwing another knife into the head hanging on their ceiling, the face distorted with different sets of knives – Kalluto’s favorite practicing material. “I’m sure they broke it off,” he says, throwing another up the ceiling and into the face – this time, it slices right through the man’s throat, “Or maybe Illumi’s trying to be more subtle about it. Even if he wasn’t, he would find some excuse to exempt himself from the rules.”

Killua, in boredom, stands from the bed, and borrows Kalluto’s knives, examining them in his hands. “Yeah,” he answers, distracted at how the minimal prick of this knife is enough to break through his skin, blood trickling down his fingers, “Illumi’s stupidly good at ignoring his own stupid rules.”

“He’s the one who made them – of course, he would know how to untangle himself from the web,” Kalluto says, shrugging with a sigh when the head falls down from the ceiling, falling down on the floor with a dull thud – the knives, at most, were probably too heavy for this lone head to bear it, “But it is kind of lame of him.”

“Everything’s lame about Illumi,” Killua remarks, hands buried into his pockets as he stares at the head in Kalluto's hands, and he realizes with surprise it’s the man he killed a week ago, “Hey, wait, why do you have _his_ head?”

“Oh, this one?” Kalluto raises the head by darkened blond hair, dried blood in the yellow locks, “I was just bored, and they seemed like the right choice.”

“Of course,” Killua says, slow – though he knows that Kalluto’s hiding something from him, he leaves it be, knowing that, if he brought up the topic, Kalluto would just outright deny his accusations, saying they were merely theories that were hardly supported by solid proof, merely by unproveable instincts and inner voices.

As Zoldycks, they were raised to rely on logics, and never on instincts; focus on the circumstances, and never the chances. Killua always strived to do so, to always calculate the math in his head before he could spur it into action, and ever since he was a child, he’s learned to neglect his instincts, and focus on the computation of every scheme – tedious it may be, it was only as effective. He’s learned to stop taking risks, to let go of what cannot be attainable, but the moment the man’s (he still refuses to say it – self-control is sacrificing, as they say) warm gaze met his own, he knew he couldn’t sneak out of this sticky mess with an arithmetic calculation of what the man’s favorite ice cream flavor would be. He couldn’t run away that night, stuck where he stood, but Killua has never felt so free – his own wings unclipped from the chains, and soaring high into the sky without a trace of blood trailing him.

He only wished that night lasted longer than a few hours, knowing it would be the last.

“Brother, I –”

The door bursts open, cutting Kalluto's sentence off, a snow owl flying in with flapping wings and a letter between his beak. Killua sighs, running a hand over his hair as he takes the letter from the bird – an assignment.

 _Again?_ Killua asks in his head, head tilted in confusion, _but I just had one a few nights ago._

He carefully unfolds the letter, reading through it slowly, nose scrunching at his assignment’s odd, laughable name. Pity whomever this is.

_Nogg Paladiknight?_

* * *

“ **–** so, you chose _Nogg Paladiknight_ , instead?”

Palm crosses her arms, huffing at the disbelief in Kurapika’s tone. “We couldn’t use Gon’s real name –” she says, glaring pointedly at Gon as she does so, “– because, _apparently_ , during the snow festival, someone – our decoy, one of the most valuable assets of our plan, the one we would need to _depend_ on for the plan to work – decided to go dancing with random ass strangers! And guess who also decided to introduce themselves and their names to _every_ stranger they danced with?” she pauses, and everyone turns to stare at Gon – who only smiles sheepishly under their stares, “You guessed it right, fuckers and fuck-ups! Gon fucking Freecss!”

Gon stands from the chair, wildly waving his arms around him in desperation. “ _Palm_!” Gon exclaims, whining, “I already apologized to you guys – and even to you personally! – about a _hundred_ times! And I really, _really_ am sorry! I’m sorry that I went out there, and got drunk, and… did drunk things!” Gon pauses for a brief moment, wincing at his own wording, breathing in as he tries to compose himself, “And I’m sorry you guys had to go an extra mile because of what I did. I’m sorry that I almost completely ruined our plans and, everyone else’s efforts, and –”

Knuckle steps up to his feet, cutting off Gon’s rambling speech with a _shush!_ “Now, now, Gon,” Knuckle starts, “You didn’t ruin our plans! Or anyone’s efforts!” Knuckle exclaims, and the look in his eyes prevents anyone from standing up to interrupt him, “So what if you decided to unwind a little bit, right? You grew up in Whale Town with hardly any food, or friends, or anyone! So, it’s _okay_ if you decide to let go for a little bit, okay? You didn’t ruin anything,” Knuckle smiles as he puts his hands on Gon’s shoulders, patting them lightly, “Alright, so we had to go think for another name for you to use, but that’s about it! Palm’s just exaggerating because she likes having to blame other people for no reason, and you really shouldn’t be so sorry. I admit that it was a bit idiotic of you to –”

“Knuckle,” Bisky calls out, tone firm, “Stop mothering Gon, and let him learn from his mistakes,” she looks at Gon, lips pressed into a thin line, “I’m not disagreeing with any of what Knuckle said, but I’m not disagreeing with Palm either,” she pauses, taking a deep breath, “Gon, you deserve to have a fun night, trust me, but this isn’t the time or place. We have an assassin in our hands – one that could bend you against your own will in mere seconds, one that could have attended the snow festival for all we know, one that doesn’t hesitate to kill,” she sighs, “Gon, we are all putting our lives on the line here. Including yours. Don’t be so careless with your words – and the alcohol, too – next time, got that?”

Gon visibly deflates, but he nods firmly to Bisky’s words, sitting back down on the couch.

Palm sighs, looks at Gon with a strained smile. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh, Gon,” she starts, fingers playing with the loose satin of her dress, “But you should know that, in everything you do, especially at a time like this, has consequences that affects everyone else,” she leans back against the chair, leg bouncing in repeated movements, and puts on a gentle smile, “You can’t play martyr here, Gon – even if you wanted to.”

“Okay, Palm, I understand,” Gon says, but the frown is apparent on his face.

Palm understood how Gon felt in more ways than one. She herself, when she had been younger, when she had been taught that her worth was in what she achieved, had been eager, nearly desperate to take the brunt of everyone else’s actions, if it only meant proving herself to the ones she cherished most. She was a reckless mess that let the battles choose her, that let scars paint her body if it meant having to parade it around like a prize – but that’s _not_ how it works. That’s not how life worked, she learned, because life was still going to take no matter how much you gave, and she didn’t want to see someone like Gon fall down the rabbit hole the same way she did.

She won’t stand it.

“Okay, now that we’re all level-headed, Zepile told me that Zoldyck already received our recruit,” Kurapika says, glancing down urgently at a paper, “We should prepare soon. Leorio’s already waiting by the docks, and Shoot is already patrolling the area close to ‘Nogg’s current location,’” Kurapika then pointedly looks at Gon, “Which, speaking of, we should all be heading to. Zoldyck operates, usually, at night, but his schedule changes to his mood. We can’t waste any more time.”

Bisky and Knuckle both stand from the chairs, walking out their quarters with a muffled conversation between them, but Palm stays in her seat, and urges Gon to do the same with a wordless plea.

Kurapika looks at them. “Are you two not coming?”

“No, no, we are,” Palm says hurriedly, waving her hand around, “I just need to discuss something with Gon for a little while. We should be right behind you.”

Kurapika nods stiffly, leaving the room with swift steps.

“Gon, do you know why I look like this?” Palm says.

Gon’s eyes widen at the sudden question. “What? Why you look like that?” he blinks as he stares at Palm – unruly black hair like a wild rose bush over ghastly skin, her gaze like a dead weight upon one’s shoulders, shrouded in satin clothes, but hardly well-kept, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with how you look like, Palm.”

“I know, Gon,” Palm slowly says, “I never said there was, you know.”

“Do people who think they’re beautiful try to explain why they look like that?” Gon says, sighing, “Mito-san told me that beauty doesn’t only have one definition.”

“It doesn’t, no,” Palm says, looking up the ceiling, “I used to be what society called pretty, you know – when I was still young and naïve, when I haven’t met Bisky yet. I would always wake up at dawn just so I could prepare myself, and my clothes, and whatever else I needed that day,” she leans back, crossing her legs, “I would always be so happy whenever boys would compliment me, or when boys noticed how I looked like – well, there _was_ a specific boy who always made my day no matter what, but he isn’t important right now,” her chest heaves with a sigh, “Whenever they didn’t, I would get mad at myself, and then punish myself for not being beautiful enough. One boy – I don’t remember his name, exactly – told me that I was too girly to be likeable. That I tried too hard to impress,” she shakes her head at the memory, “So I changed, then. Decided to practice my techniques, fought in underground arenas, and all that. There was nothing special about my combat skills, but I had something that only a few did,” she smiles, “Apparently, at that time, I was too masculine for a man to ever want.”

“That’s really shitty of them, Palm,” Gon remarks, brows furrowed.

“I know,” she says, “I stopped listening to them, then. Started to look like how I wanted to, stopped trying to change every part of myself into what they wanted,” she looks at Gon, blinking, “Gon, what I’m trying to say is you live for yourself,” her chest clenches at the blankness that suddenly envelopes Gon’s features, “Don’t live for capturing Zoldyck, or avenging Ging, or whatever else. It’s _okay_ to want to do those things, but redirecting your whole life to _focus_ on doing those things… Gon, it’s hard at first, I get that. I _know_ that,” she stands from her chair, walking to Gon, “But it’s going to be so beautiful, Gon, once you start to see.”

Gon smiles shakily at that, standing up as well. “Okay, Palm,” he says, “I’ll make sure to remember your words.”

They share a smile before they both walk out the door, the sun setting into the horizon, the world around them lit in an afternoon glow.

“Palm, what can you do, by the way? The powers Bisky was talking about?” Gon asks, forehead creased in confusion.

Palm merely smirks. “You’ll see.”

* * *

Killua’s hands are buried deep into his pockets, suppressing a yawn with the bite of the insides of his cheeks. He leans against the brick wall, blinking slowly to prevent the itching sleepiness from seeping in. This assignment paid a lot, and Illumi would have his head if he didn’t follow through – he never did not, but a threat was still a threat all the same. He puts his hand over his mouth, yawning into his palms.

Nogg Paladiknight, apparently, was the son of some healer, and had spoken foul words to the recruiter’s son (whomever they might be – this recruit, like always, is anonymous) which had greatly angered the recruiter. Killua still thought it odd to pay such a large amount for an assassin to kill someone you had a row with, but he supposed he killed for less. There wasn’t much room left for judgment.

When he sees the door slowly open, the door knob twisting, Killua takes a step backwards, eyes squinted as he tries to see whomever it was that left the building. All he would need to look for is a nineteen-year-old with brown eyes and black hair – the description was quite vague, but Killua never missed any targets.

He takes a step closer, careful not to let the moonlight graze him.

He stiffens, breath lost in the mid of his throat, sweat gathering on the palms of his hands, as the familiar silhouette makes its way into his view – spiked hair, muscular frame, and, _now_ , horrid clothes in shades of green and maroon.

He lets out a breath, one that constricts in his chest, and one that he’s been holding in quite painfully.

_This has got to be some fucking joke._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao yall will really laugh at the sudden transition between gon and kil the next chapter pls 
> 
> and i am v sorry 4 the grammatical errors bc as always i am half-asleep as i type this:>
> 
> but aaaaa ty 4 reading, hope u enjoyed!!<3


	7. auribus teneo lupum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **auribus teneo lupum,** _holding a wolf by the ears_

_Never approach your target unless success is guaranteed,_ Illumi’s words ring in his mind as he carefully watches his target walk around his house, hands in his pockets as he whistles some odd tune. Killua gulps as he continues to stare, his heart thrumming against his ribcage, palms slick with sweat, and he bites his tongue, sharp teeth digging through the wet flesh, the silvery taste of blood brimming in his mouth. His posture is rigid – back in an arch, legs tense, face pinched – and his feet stays solid on the ground, unmoving as though a heavy weight grounded him.

He _should_ move, do something, anything. Hell, he doesn’t even _need_ to move to kill his target, and it would only take the lone swirl of his hand to stop the blood flow of his target, to watch his target fall numb to the ground, heart inert against his chest. But, every time he tries to raise his hand, every time he tries to take a step closer, a voice inside his mind stops him from doing so, and suddenly memories from the night before – bright smiles, heartening words, soft gazes, tender touches – flood his mind, and his conscious thoughts fade into mere memories of… Gon, or Nogg, or whatever the fuck his name really was. Killua gulps. This is it. This is the perfect opportunity. His target is unassuming, and distracted, and still –

– so why the _fuck_ isn’t he moving?

_You’re so beautiful._

Fuck, no. He doesn’t need this right now, not when he’s meant to kill _him_ , not in the man’s low voice _._ Killua stumbles back into the shadows, hands fisting his hair in frustration, tears welling up in the corner of his eyes – Kalluto was right; this man, his target, shouldn’t matter to him, and his words shouldn’t echo endlessly in his head, and his eyes shouldn’t be what he sees every time he closes his eyes. This man – someone good, and pure, and kind – doesn’t deserve to be tainted by _him._ The rotten apple, the venomous snake, the heartless killer – he’s been called many names, and he knows that they’re true to their essence, and he _can’t._ He can’t move closer. He can’t take another step. He _can’t_.

 _Goddamnit, Killua,_ he curses in his head, _it was just one night. Just one fucking night. All that idiot did was tell you pretty words. Just fucking get over it._

He gulps, standing straighter. He takes a deep breath, stares at the man only a few steps away from him, and slowly raises his hand.

He stops himself, hands still in the air.

He can’t. He can’t kill Gon.

His body slumps with defeat, leaning uselessly against the wall, closing his eyes as he drowns in his consuming thoughts.

Gon isn’t like the rest – he isn’t some nameless stranger whose face he’d forget after a few moments of killing them, and his voice is what Killua hears when silence surrounds him in an embrace. It was only a short night – a night with hidden faces, but also a night where Killua could take off his mask – yet the imprint that Gon has left on him is akin to a tattoo painted through his skin, and no matter how hard he tried to scratch away any remnants of Gon, or his words, or that night, it still _stuck._ It stuck like a scar reaching to his bones, like a thorn stabbed through his heart, like a secret he kept beneath his ribcage. Gon had shown him something different that night – had shown him something else, something he wasn’t taught to bear. _Gon_ had been something different that night, and Killua wasn’t willing to let him go for the sake of useless coins that would only slip through his fingers in a thoughtless haze.

 _No_ , a voice protests in his head, and Killua knows it’s not his own, _he lied to you about his own name – whatever it may be. Who’s to say what he said to you that night weren’t lies?_ Killua screws his eyes close, but he can’t shut the voice out, repeatedly ringing in his head, reminding him of everything else he ached to forget, _who’s to say that he wasn’t complimenting you for your name? Who’s to say he didn’t recognize you regardless of your mask? Tsk._

Killua freezes up, and his eyes open in a startle, staring at Gon, or Nogg, his _target_ – still in the same position, seeming like he was waiting for something. Squinting, he stands on his own feet, no longer leaning on the wall for balance. His target’s eyes flicker, suspicion clear in his bright gaze. His stomach churns at the sight – those eyes had once looked at him as if he held the moon in his hands, and sooner than later, those eyes would lose its luminance, and would only be a lifeless brown staring back at him. He digs his nails into his palms, suppressing the feeling that tugs his chest. He won’t feel guilt, or remorse, not even with _him._

An assassin holds no exceptions.

 _That’s right,_ the voice praises, slithering like snakes, _ignore what that man has said to you – his name, his compliments, his teases. He’s lying, Killua. He only said those to soften you, and he succeeded in that, didn’t he?_

Killua grimaces, blood seeping from his palms.

_How pathetic. You won’t kill him because he called you beautiful? Is that it, Killua? Is that Killua Zoldyck’s weakness – someone calling him beautiful? Quite shallow, if I must say, but I didn’t expect anything less from you._

His thoughts poison every part of him, leaving a withering indentation, dirtying what’s left of him, and even what’s rotting.

He can’t stop it.

 _Of course, you can’t_ , the voice sneers, _you can hardly do anything. Just kill your target. After all, it’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?_

He shakily raises his hand.

_Come on, now. Do it, Killua. Kill him like you’ve killed all those innocent people. This man won’t matter to you anymore, and neither would his words. He’s just a distraction, Killua, and you do know what to do with distractions, don’t you, Killua? What do you do with distractions, Killua?_

Killua breathes in, lungs heavy. _I eliminate them._

 _Correct_ , the voice says, _now do it._

Killua steadies his hand, and in seconds quicker than lightning, he finds them bound to his back, chains wrapped tight around his fist.

He can’t move his hands.

_Fuck._

* * *

Gon’s eyes widen when the sound of rustling metals breaches his ears, swiftly turning on his feet, jaw slacked as he tries to take in the sight laid out before him. Kurapika stands from a distance, hardly noticeable from the engulfing darkness around him, his chains stretched far, bounding the… assassin. He could see Palm slowly walking up to the man restrained in chains, but Gon could hardly pay attention to that, to any of those.

The man – Killua Zoldyck, the one who had killed his father, the Avatar, the peacekeeper of the world; the one Gon has been hunting for, the one whose skin he’s been aching to burn with his hands – is no other than Lua – the one whose eyes Gon couldn’t forget, the one whose voice Gon had replayed in his mind when sleep was unwilling, the one whose lips Gon had wanted to press against his own.

_Fuck._

His throat is drying, and it hurts to swallow, but the lump is a heavy weight in the mid of his throat as he tries to regain his breath, feeling as though his breath was stolen away by the mere sight of Zoldyck – someone he had ached to hurt with his flames, but also someone he had danced with under the moonlight; someone he had cursed with his entire being, but also someone he had compared to the moon and to the ocean; someone he had wanted to bruise with his fists, but also someone he had held in his arms. Killua Zoldyck, the one who had stolen away his father, but also his breath, the very reason for the state of their world, but also for _his_ , stands before him, while all _he_ can think about is the feel of Lua’s narrow waist between his arms, and the sound of Lua’s laughter echoing in the hollow of his mind, and the sight of Lua’s oceanlike eyes, waves flowing in his shades of blue.

He realizes – with the churning of his stomach, bile rising to his throat – that Lua and Zoldyck are one and the same.

“You,” he whispers, and it’s uncertain, “You’re Killua Zoldyck.”

Zoldyck sneers – and what was once charming turns into a cruel, ugly thing. “Yeah, no shit,” he says, voice rough as he struggles against the chains – a sight that makes Gon flutter with satisfaction, “Killer of the last Avatar, heir of the Zoldyck family, the assassin who was supposed to kill _you_ ,” he smirks at the blankness that rests upon Gon’s face, and a sudden urge to wipe that smirk away with his fist strikes through Gon, sparks of fire bubbling from his clenched fists, “What, still think I’m beautiful?”

At that moment, where a cruel smile plays on Zoldyck’s lips, where his fists shake with restraint, is where Gon realizes that whatever he had with Lua a few nights ago doesn’t matter. Whatever he said to Lua, whatever he felt with Lua, was merely an alcohol-induced recklessness, feelings amplified by his drunken haze, and it _doesn’t_ matter – everything with Lua, and everything he’s said to Lua, and everything he’s thought of Lua. It doesn’t matter – not when Lua is merely a pretty face, an ugly soul beneath his porcelain skin, dirty blood hidden under his fingernails, and, _fuck_ , Gon’s eyes close with humiliation at the thought that _he_ had admired this man only a few nights ago, that he called this man beautiful.

 _No_ , he thinks, a reassurance to himself, _that doesn’t matter. Lua doesn’t matter. That night doesn’t matter. It’s Zoldyck, and what Zoldyck has done, that does._

He opens his eyes, and his gaze hardens. “That was a mistake,” he says, reveling in the flash of hurt that passes through Zoldyck’s eyes, “Lua, or whoever you pretended to be that night, was a mistake,” he steps closer, meeting Palm’s inquisitive gaze, “Palm, what was it that the others had wanted you to do? Could you show me?”

Palm nods, and the steps she takes are bolder now. His eyes widen in alarm when Zoldyck shifts in his position, and he quickly runs to block Zoldyck’s way, his own chest bumping against Zoldyck’s.

Kurapika walks into the light, his expression tight, and the chain expands to the entirety of Zoldyck’s torso. “Nice try, Zoldyck, but I’m afraid I won’t give you any more chances to escape,” Kurapika says, eyes squinting into a glare as he walks to Gon’s side.

Zoldyck sneers at that, scoffing. “You –” he tries to say, but Palm reaches him first, pressing her fingers into various parts of Zoldyck’s body in quick motions, and Gon is left speechless at how the light jabs leave Zoldyck curling into himself, and would have fallen bonelessly into the ground if it weren’t for Palm holding him up.

“Wha – _What_ did you do to me?” Zoldyck hisses out, body too numb to move.

“You really don’t know?” Palm says, raising a brow, “I’m a chi blocker, Zoldyck,” Gon’s eyes widen at that, all the pieces suddenly fitting together – _that_ was why Bisky needed Palm close enough to touch Zoldyck, and why Kurapika had to bind Zoldyck first, “You shouldn’t be able to move or bend for the next few hours,” Palm winks at Gon after that, and Gon feels a wave of appreciation for Palm run through him, “But we should get going. We wouldn’t want word to spread that we have Zoldyck in our hands. We’d be targeted, by then, if it did.”

Gon nods. “Do we just head on to the ship, then?” he asks, humming when both Palm and Kurapika answer with a nod, then frowns when he’s reminded of Zoldyck’s immobile body, “What about the Zoldyck? Would we need to carry him?”

Kurapika shrugs, staring thoughtfully at Zoldyck. “I could just drag him along with my chains.”

Zoldyck’s eyes widen at the prospect, jaw slacked. “What the _fuck_?” he says, hissing, “I’m not a fucking dog! Fuck you!”

Kurapika turns around to face him, hostility clear in his eyes as he does so. “Well, right now, you’re as good as one,” he glares at Zoldyck, ignoring the vulgar words coming out his mouth in waves as he turns to face Palm and Gon, “No one needs to carry him. It’s fine,” he bends a block of earth – the one that Zoldyck is laid across on – and levitates it into the air, coaxing a yelp from Zoldyck, “See? Problem solved.”

Palm nods. “We should head on to the ship,” she says, crossing her arms as she starts to walk – the other two hurriedly following her pace, “The others are already there. Knuckle and Shoot, however, aren’t coming with us.”

Gon raises his brows at that. “Huh? Why?”

“Apparently, those two idiots want to stay in Agna Qel’a for the meantime,” she shakes her head at her words, but her smile is fond, “They – well, it was really Knuckle who was doing all the talking, but I assume Shoot was also onboard – wanted to prolong their honeymoon or whatever.”

Gon smiles at that, chuckling, and for a quick moment, he forgets about Zoldyck, and the weight he carries upon them. “They really love each other, don’t they?”

“Yeah, they love each other _so_ much to the point that they’re willing to spend their honeymoon while trying to hunt for an assassin,” Kurapika jokes, and Gon opens his mouth for a burst of laughter to tumble out, but a sound comes from above them.

“You’re _hunters_?” Zoldyck exclaims, and Gon is grateful for the distance between them.

“Hunters?” Kurapika repeats, face pinched in confusion, before he hums, realizing the correlation, “Ah, you mean the hunt. We’re participating in the hunt, yes, and the question you should be asking, Zoldyck, is who _isn’t_?” he huffs, “The whole world’s out to get you, Zoldyck. You should know better.”

“I _do_ know better,” Zoldyck hisses, rolling his eyes, “What do you think happened to all the hunters that tried to sneak up on me in my house?”

Gon’s hands clench into fists, and he moves before he could think. Despite the distance between them, Gon is tall enough to meet Zoldyck’s narrow gaze, his fist raised up to Zoldyck’s jaw, small bursts of fire circling through his fist. Zoldyck’s face is impassive, but Gon knows he’s shocked – at what, Gon doesn’t know, but a wave of satisfaction courses through him regardless. The glint in his eyes is dangerous, and his fist is unmoving against Zoldyck’s pale jaw – a threat, a cautionary, and a dare all at the same time. He sees Zoldyck grit his teeth, and he smiles toothily at that, but it’s too menacing to be even seen as friendly.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Zoldyck,” he hisses through his teeth, and their faces are close enough to be sharing the same breath, “Unless you want to end up the way they did, shut your mouth. No one wants to hear you talk.”

Zoldyck only sneers at the threat. “Really?” he taunts, lashes fluttering, “That’s not what I heard from you a few days ago.”

The flame brewing in his fist presses through Zoldyck’s pale skin. “ _Shut up._ ”

Zoldyck hisses under the sudden onslaught, trying to break free from the flames, but Gon grips his jaw steady with his other hand. “ _Fuck_ , fine,” he relents, and Gon blinks at the tears shining in Zoldyck’s eyes, but it fades away as Zoldyck scowls at him, spitting at Gon’s face, “Go to fucking hell.”

“And you’ll be going with me,” Gon whispers against the burnt skin, taking his hands away from Zoldyck’s face, wiping away the spit from his face with a dangerous smile, “The flames will devour your pretty skin, Zoldyck, and I’ll be watching happily.”

Zoldyck smirks. “You will?” he says, a whisper in the wind, “Oh, but I’m sure you’d be happier if it was _your_ flames. Wouldn’t you like to see how my lips would look like after the brunt of your flames? Dark and crisp, and it’s all because of you,” he smirks at the blank stare Gon directs at him, leaning in closer, “Come on, Gon, let me go and give me a fair fight. Don’t you want to see me on my knees, skin burned and eyes dull, because of you? Don’t you want to hear me _beg_ for my life?”

“Gon, don’t listen to him –”

Gon slowly raises his hands, gripping Zoldyck’s face. “Keep on talking, and it’ll be your hands next,” he says, pulling away with a glare.

Zoldyck’s façade falls apart, and his lips twist with a scowl. “Let’s see you fucking try.”

Gon prepares to throw his fist, nearly leaping up to Zoldyck. “Oh, I will, you son of a –”

“ _Gon_ ,” Palm says, placing her hand on his shoulders as she pulls him apart from Zoldyck, “That’s enough. He’s just trying to distract you.”

Gon breathes in slowly, and tries to gather his thoughts, shaking away the anger, and the hatred, and the loathing that threatens to devour the whole of him, leaving nothing but remnants of who he once was. He can’t give in to his thoughts, no matter how tempting, and he knows Zoldyck is only trying to delay them, but the desire to _finally_ have Zoldyck at his mercy is engulfing his entirety. He shakes his head, breathes slowly, and nods, walking steadily on the ground with his head hung low. He shouldn’t lose control, and losing his composure would only fuel Zoldyck more. He can’t have that.

He _won’t_ have that, not if he has a choice in it.

“I know it’s hard for you to ignore him, Gon, but wait until we’re at the ship,” Kurapika says, and he hastens his pace. “Who knows who could be watching us right now?” he takes a look around, skeptical of his surroundings, “Thankfully, at this hour, the dock is empty, so we should be having no trouble leaving.”

Gon tilts his head in confusion. “Well, I don’t think it’s a crime that we captured one of the most dangerous assassins.”

“That’s the _thing_ , Gon,” Palm says, “We have one of the most dangerous assassins in our hands, and can you imagine how many people are going to try to take him from us for the reward of the hunt?”

“No,” Gon says, and a growl leaves his lips at the thought, “He’s _mine._ ”

Zoldyck rustles at the declaration, cursing his numb muscles, struggling uselessly against the chains. “I’m not fucking yours, you absolute fuck,” he hisses, his voice an incessant growl.

“No, you’re not,” Gon agrees, staring at Zoldyck with a heated gaze, “But you’re mine to kill.”

Palm and Siberia fall silent at that, but Gon doesn’t try to retrieve his words – why should he if he _meant_ it?

“Then, you’re just as bad as me,” Zoldyck says, huffing.

“Don’t you _ever_ compare me to you,” Gon says, and his body shakes with the urge to _just_ do what it aches to do, “Because I’m not some fucking monster who kills anyone and everyone for the shallow reward of money. You took someone important from me, Zoldyck, and you’re not getting away with it.”

“Revenge, huh?” Zoldyck says, and, _gods,_ what Gon would give to shut him up, “Well, you seemed like the type, but don’t think I’ll remember who the fuck it was,” he hums, smirking, “I tend to forget those who I killed. I don’t really care about them, and it’s really fucking pathetic of you to think that I would.”

Gon chuckles darkly. “You’ll remember him, I promise you that,” his gaze flicks to Zoldyck for a brief moment, “He’ll be the only one you’ll remember by the time I’m done with you.”

“How cute,” Zoldyck remarks, sneering, “Sad to say that I, quite frankly, don’t give a flying fuck.”

Gon opens his mouth to retort, but Kurapika sends him a look.

“Gon,” Kurapika warns, brows knitted, “Stop indulging him. Focus on the road, and once we arrive at the ship, say whatever you want to him.”

Gon nods, and he wants to run to the ship. The words he’s been trapping in his throat is desperately aching to break free, and he knows he won’t be able to control himself any longer – not when Zoldyck is only a fingerbreadth away from his hands, not when Zoldyck is in his grasp to ruin. His body is shaking with his efforts from holding himself back, and he breathes in the night air, looking up to the moon.

 _Soon_ , he promises himself, thoughts calmed by the sight of the moon, _be patient._

The rest of the walk to the ship is silent, but Gon feels his ears gnawed – by what exactly, he isn’t too sure. His steps are heavy with the weight of Zoldyck, and his fists are hanging limply by his sides. His eyes widen with relief at the sight of the ship by the docks, and he nearly sprints to the damned ship, but instead steadies his footing on the ground, stealing a glance at Zoldyck.

Zoldyck’s eyes are impassive, and uncaring, but there are flickers of various emotions that dances through his gaze like lovers under the pouring rain. His ivory hair is messily smeared against the hard stone, and Gon fights down the urge to gently tuck away the lone strands framing his face, reminding himself who he’s thinking of, and what Zoldyck has done to him. He won’t be swayed with Zoldyck’s beauty – how could he be when, under that surface allure, is a rotten heart that only takes, and takes, and takes, no matter who it may be, and no matter what it could mean. Zoldyck chases for the sweet taste of blood, uncaring for the flesh he tears apart, and he walks away from the scene with a smile across his face, crimson tainting his pearl teeth – even if Zoldyck had a gaze that would drown him as the ocean would, and lips that were alike to soft petals of pastel roses, and skin that shined like satin under flickering lamps, it doesn’t erase the blood in his hands, and the thorn in his heart.

_If he had one, that is._

“We’re here,” Palm says, breathing a sigh of relief, “Finally.”

 _Finally_ , he repeats in his head, meeting Zoldyck’s uncaring gaze.

* * *

Bisky stands from the wooden chair in an abrupt movement when familiar silhouettes walk their way inside the ship, nearly flinching at the sight of Zoldyck bound to a slab of earth. She swallows down the lump in her throat as Zoldyck’s body is made clear under the dim lights of the ship – a thin and lithe frame, deadly hands stuck in chains, beautiful eyes cruelly callous. Her eyes are alight in wonder when her gaze travels to Gon – reddening fists clenched tight, sparks of fire bursting from his knuckles, amber eyes burning with anger, and life, and wrath, gaze riveted on Zoldyck.

She raises her brows in interest. Zoldyck – the man who had killed his father at such a tender, impressionable age – finally stood in their grasp, bound helpless by unrelenting chains, and her chest hurts with pity as she tries to conjure an image of Gon unleashing all that he has pent up on Zoldyck. She knows that Gon has been _desperately_ waiting for this moment to unravel right before his eyes, and she knows all that he wanted to do to Zoldyck, all that he wanted to say – she could see it from the way his eyes glowed with desire as he set fire on used parchment, and the way he tensed up when Zoldyck’s name was thrown around with mirth, and the way he had hungrily gazed at paintings and pictures of the Zoldycks around Agna Qel’a. She bites her tongue – she _understands_ Gon’s anger, really, she does, and maybe even feels it too, but she doesn’t want to see him walk down the road of destruction with abandon for himself and the world around him.

She feels Zepile stiffen beside her. “I’ll tell the captain,” he says, and quickly rushes out of the room with rushed steps.

Kurapika hums as he looks around, brows furrowing when he realizes the sight before him is empty of one person. “Where’s Leorio?” he asks, lips pursed, “I thought he would wait for us?”

Bisky nods, but her gaze is stuck between Zoldyck and Gon. “He _was_ waiting,” she says, “But, apparently, you three took too long. He’s already asleep in the cabin.”

Kurapika snorts at that, shaking his head, and a subtle fondness suddenly takes over his features – Bisky nearly coos. “Oh, how Leorio of him,” he remarks, huffing, but the warmth in his eyes fades away in the second that he takes a glance at Zoldyck, “I’ll go secure him below the deck.”

She watches Kurapika drag away the slab of rock with the twist of his fingers, a rope of metal connecting his hands to the rock, brows raised in curiosity when Zoldyck hardly mutters a word or moves an inch. She’s heard of Zoldyck’s fiery nature, crackled with life if with the right person, but burned everything else to the ground if not. She puts her hands on her hips in thought, wondering what had gone between them to coax a wondrous, nearly shocking silence from Zoldyck – and she’s heard that his words were far, far _more_ vulgar than hers, and that, quite frankly, spoke for itself. 

_They must’ve hit a weak spot_ , she says in her head, staring at Gon and Palm.

“Gon,” she says, head tilted, already sensing the movements Gon had meant to do, stopping in his steps like a deer caught in the headlights, “Calm your head before you go to Zoldyck. You don’t want to do anything that you might regret.”

Gon attempts to open his mouth to talk back, but Palm puts a steady hand on his shoulders, her own gaze unwavering against Gon’s.

“Gon, I know we promised you could confront Zoldyck once we arrived at the ship, but Bisky’s right,” Palm says, trying to calm him with a gentle smile, “You really need to clear your mind before you confront Zoldyck, and besides, we have _a lot_ of questions for you.”

Gon slumps in defeat, but he nods reluctantly, stomps his way to a chair, sitting down with a pout, like a child scolded for playing out in the nighttime. Bisky fondly shakes her head at the sight, crossing her arms as she sits back down on the wooden chair, raising her brows when she meets Palm’s eyes.

“Okay, firstly, what the hell did Zoldyck mean by all his suggestive comments?” Palm asks, and Bisky’s back straightens in interest, widened gaze redirected to Gon, “I swear to the gods, Gon, if you fucking slept with him that night, I _will_ bang your stupid head right on this ship –”

Gon stands from his chair, cheeks ablaze with a flush. “W-wha – _No_ , Palm, no!” he sputters out, and Bisky can’t help but laugh at the unlikely sight of a flustered Gon, poorly suppressing her bubbling laughter when Gon briefly turns to glare at her, “It’s just… I danced with him that night, and well…” Gon trails off with a nervous smile, scratching the back of his neck in a sheepish attempt to soothe himself, and relieve himself off the embarrassment of his words.

“Well…?” Bisky prompts.

“…well, I may have said a lot of things to him that night,” Gon says, smiling nervously at Palm and Bisky, “Things that I would have _never_ said if I knew who he really was under the mask. But I didn’t. Which is why I said those.”

Bisky snorts at the awkward pauses of Gon’s sentences, while Palm merely raises a lone brow at his words.

“And those things like…?” Palm presses on, leaning against the wall of the ship.

“Well, I may have called him beautiful more than once,” Gon says under his breath, but the ship is quiet enough for Bisky to make out his mumbled words.

Palm nods, humming. “Well,” she starts, shrugging, “You weren’t – _aren’t_ – exactly lying. The Zoldyck isn’t the _worst_ assassin to look at.”

“Don’t be a liar, Palm,” Bisky says, rolling her eyes at the glare Palm sends her way, “Zoldyck is a fucking vision, and it’s so sad to see him waste his pretty face,” she sighs solemnly, face leaning against her palms, “His skin is so _annoyingly_ clear! _Now_ , I’m tempted to ask a fucking _assassin_ for his damn skin care routine!”

“ _Gods_ , Bisky,” Palm says, exasperated, “When are you going to _stop_ being so fucking shallow?”

Bisky scowls at that, standing from her chair to face Palm. “Hey,” she says, her tone tight with tension, “Just because you don’t care for the same things that I do, doesn’t make them – or _me –_ shallow.”

“It does when you’re willing to ask a damned assassin for what he does with his damned skin!”

Bisky growls, leaning up on her toes. “Be fucking careful with your words, Palm, or –”

“Hey, you two,” a voice comes from the doorway of the ship, and Bisky turns her head to see Kurapika lazily leaning against the wooden walls, yawning into his palms, “I’m heading out to sleep, so could you two please quit your bickering? You’re going to wake up everyone else in this ship with your voices.”

Gon frowns at that, hands clenching into fists. “What?” he asks in disbelief, “What about Zoldyck?”

“He’s bound by metal bindings,” Kurapika says, “No matter how hard he tries to escape, he wouldn’t be able to. His hands are still immobile by the metal, and he can hardly bloodbend from Palm’s chi blocking. You shouldn’t have to worry over anything,” he tilts his head, sighing as he notes the unrelenting questions in Gon’s gaze, “If you’re so worried, though, I suggest one of you guard him.”

“I’ll do it,” Bisky says, ignoring Gon’s glare, “Don’t give me that look, Gon. I told you I don’t want you doing anything you’d regret.”

“And I _won’t_ , Bisky,” Gon says, nearly pleads, but the look in his eyes tells Bisky otherwise, “I really won’t, Bisky. I swear. Don’t you trust me?”

“This isn’t a question of trust, Gon, you know that,” Bisky says, “This is a question about self-control – which, at the moment, you don’t have,” she walks to Kurapika, holding up a hand when sputtered protests stumble from Gon’s mouth, “You can see him tomorrow morning. I _don’t_ want to keep on arguing about this.”

She hears Palm coaxing Gon to sleep as she walks to the door that led them below the deck, catching the cautionary look Kurapika sends her with an assured smile. She opens the door, the unsteady floorboard creaking underneath her footsteps.

_Time to figure you out, Killua Zoldyck._

* * *

Killua’s head numbly hits the hard wall with a firm thud, forcing his eyes close.

 _You see it now, don’t you,_ the voice says, and Killua bites his lips – gnaws on it, really – hard enough for the skin of the delicate flesh to split, small trails of blood dripping from his lips, _this is what attachments do to you. They distract you from your goals. And you’ve been_ so _easily distracted, Killua, that it makes me wonder if you really learned anything from me at all. Now, because you refused to listen to me, because you let yourself get distracted by some worthless man, you’re stuck in some ship with a revenge-driven man who would tear you apart if he could. He cannot, but he would._

He tries to swallow the lump stuck in his throat, his hands aching with the urge to tear _himself_ apart. He wanted to rip out his hair until blood was the only thing that covered his scalp, to rub his eyes in rough motions until his vision collapsed into a blank darkness, to scratch the scars from his skin until he’s created more. _This_ was all his fault, and Kalluto had been nothing but right – the man, that godforsaken distraction of a man, had only been able to capture him because _he_ , Killua-fucking-Zoldyck, fell right into his trap thoughtlessly, merely because of pretty words and prettier eyes.

His mind conjures the image of twin spheres of molten gold, and Killua bangs his head against the wall in a desperate attempt to shake away the thought.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself, _why am I so fucking pathetic_?

He should have known. He should have known that the man had been too much of a dream to come true. A man like _him –_ sweet in his words, sweeter in his deeds – would never, _could_ never adore someone like Killua – someone whose eyes are as lifeless as corpses, someone whose words are as vulgar as pirates, someone whose soul is as rotten as a soiled apple. He deserves this – to have the last remnant of his hope so easily snatched away like the last day of summer, a bleak winter overtaking instead, and what was once bright is left dull.

 _Don’t fool yourself_ , the voice sneers, _you were never bright. Just an encompassing darkness who brought everyone else to drown with him. This is why attachments aren’t meant for you, Killua_ , he lets out a breath, knowing he can’t stop the voice, knowing he’ll hear it anyways, no matter how much he hurts himself in attempts to chase it away, _you’ll just dim everyone else. You’re a burden, a weight no one wants to carry._

_You’re pathetic._

Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, and Killua curses himself for it, lashes fluttering rapidly to blink away the proof of his weakness.

_A pathetic, sorry excuse of a –_

The sound of the floorboards creaking breaches his ears, and his brows furrow in suspicion, the room too dark for him to make out who came in.

_If it’s the man, Killua, you know what to do. You don’t cave in. This is your chance to prove to me you’re not a pathetic scumbag who falls to his knees for anyone who calls him beautiful._

He winces.

“Hello, Killua Zoldyck,” a short blonde woman says, catching his attention with her firm gaze, “I’m Bisky Krueger.”

Killua scoffs, rolling his eyes as he leans against the wall. “And why the fuck should I care?”

“Gods, what happened to your lips?” the woman – Krueger, he supposes, refusing to call _anyone_ by their first name – says, taking a few steps closer, and pulling out a white cloth from her pockets, attempting to press it to his lips, “You know, you –”

Killua inches his face away, growling. “Don’t fucking touch me, you hag!”

Krueger’s face hardens, and her other hand keeps his jaw still, firmly pressing the cloth into his bruised lips. “You’re a fucking brat,” she says, and Killua snorts, “Call me a hag once more, and I swear to the fucking gods.”

Killua smirks – the woman had only set herself up. “You’re a hag,” he says easily.

Krueger clenches her jaw, pressing the fabric into his bruise harder than necessary, smiling at the hiss of pain that involuntarily falls from his lips. “You know,” Krueger says, too conversational to be casual, “Gon told me something – about how you two first met.”

_Fuck._

Killua groans, struggling against Krueger’s steel grip. “That was a fucking mistake,” he says, and the man’s words from earlier repeats in his head in haunting echoes, face pinching as he remembers the man’s harsh tone and careless eyes. The man who had once looked at him as though he held the world in his hands, then looked at him as though he was only a disgusting pile of dirt – which, Killua easily decides, isn’t too far-fetched from the truth.

Krueger hums thoughtfully, gentler in her jabs against his bleeding lips. “You wish it wasn’t, though,” she meets Killua’s scandalized gaze with a firm one, eyes squinting, “Don’t try to deny it, Zoldyck. I know that look in your eyes like the back of my hand,” she continues to stare at him, and he squirms against the chains, “Must be sad, huh?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Killua asks, hostile.

“To have someone appreciate you for who you truly are, but having that slip away the moment you start to accept it,” Krueger says, gazing at him with pitying eyes, and Killua feels _sick_ to his stomach _._ He doesn’t _want_ any of this – any of their poorly-timed pities, or their humiliating sympathies, or their reluctant understanding. He doesn’t need of any of those – he doesn’t need what makes him weak.

 _So pathetic_ , the voice tuts, _that’s why no one loves you, Killua._

“You have no idea what you’re fucking talking about,” Killua says, growling, “Go –” he catches himself, back stiffening, “– the _man_ – and everything else he said to me – was all a fucking ploy to distract me!”

Krueger only hums. “Who said it was?”

“Because it fucking was!”

Krueger pulls away from him, releasing her grip on him, and she tucks away her cloth back into her pockets, white planes dirtied by dark scarlets. “He only realized who you were when he saw you without the mask,” Krueger remarks, sitting on the sole chair in the room, creaking with age.

He freezes up at the declaration, tension tightening his body, and he can’t fight the elatedness that courses through him.

What the man had said was true, then, and he _truly_ meant it when he called Killua beautiful. The man was sincere in his laughter, and his words, and his gaze, and –

 _That makes you even more unworthy of him, Killua_ , the voice says, _you don’t deserve sincerity, you know that. You don’t deserve anything good, and that includes the man – the only one who, even for one night, saw you for who you were, but still found the beauty in you. Even_ he _decided that you were a mistake._

Killua inhales sharply. “I don’t fucking care.”

_What a pathetic liar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and this is where the 'enemies with belligerent tension, to begrudging allies who still hold sparks of hatred for one another, to reluctant friends who very slowly very reluctantly pines for something more, to lovers' part comes in,,,,
> 
> but but thank u so much 4 reading!! i hope u enjoyed!!! i appreciate all of ur comments and kudos w all my heart aaaaa tytysm!!!<333


	8. aut inveniam viam aut faciam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **aut inveniam viam aut faciam,** _i will either find a way or make one_

_Oh, but I’m sure you’d be happier if it was your flames,_ Zoldyck’s words resound in his head in ceaseless litanies, and beneath the darkness of his eyelids is a vivid portrait Gon had painted in his head – Zoldyck’s ceruleans darkening into the shade of the ocean dancing with the hurricane in a violent waltz, whirring waves touching the tip of the sky, and heavy clouds dampening the earth, cold skin reddened with dried scars of the raging briars of fire, smearing him with wordless rose-colored reminders like seal waxed on parchment, _don’t you want to see me on my knees, skin burned and eyes dull, because of you?_

Gon shudders, and he opens his eyes in desperation, the dim lights of the ship washing away the images in his head. He slowly lifts himself off the sleeping bag, sitting upright, his head throbbing with another oncoming headache. The wooden floor underneath him sways with the harsh waves, and Gon frowns when he notices the door grappling against itself. He stands from the thin quilt soundlessly, breathing out a relieved sigh when he finds that the others are still deep in sleep – how, he doesn’t know, given the unsteady movements of the ship, and the thunders cracking just outside this room. He walks out the cabin with heavy steps, opening the door with unneeded force, and he’s nearly swept away by the aggressive winds, the massive waves reaching over the ship floors. His eyes widen, their ship nearly submerged into the ocean, quickly slamming the door shut, hoping no residual water slipped in their cabin. He wouldn’t want the others to wake up with soaked hair and saltwater in their mouths.

He walks across the floor, wincing at the water that soaks up his pants, hurrying his steps. He nearly slips across the floor, holding on to the ship’s railings to steady himself, wiping away the droplets of rain off his eyes. He quickens his pace, and though he _meant_ to check on the captain, his attention was easily stolen by the familiar, metal-bound doors – which only led to the room below the deck. Once he’s close enough, he lets go of the railings, and slides to the door, planting his palms flat on the door, firmly gripping the metal. He unlocks the door with a simple twist of the metal, slowly opening it, shivering from the coldness of the room.

He walks in, breath stuck in his chest, and gaze drawn to the faint silhouette of Zoldyck – head hung low with his hands clasped tightly to his back, blue eyes dimmed under the dark room, skin tainted with dried blood and burn scars. His breath hitches, and he grips on the metal of the door, a nameless emotion swarming through his chest. He ignores it, shaking the feeling away with a grunt, and makes himself known to Zoldyck, stepping inside the room further with loud, heavy footfalls.

Zoldyck looks up, a drunken, hazy look dappled in his eyes. “Look who decided to visit,” he drawls, an impish smirk on his face, “What, are you here to burn the rest of my face while I’m helpless in these chains?” Zoldyck squints, brows furrowing at the darkened look in Gon’s eyes, and he averts his gaze, scoffing, “You’re such a sadistic fuck.”

Gon ignores him, and finds himself surprised at the sight of a sleeping Bisky, nestled uncomfortably in the stiff chair. He walks closer to Zoldyck, and he doesn’t try to quiet his footsteps, knowing Bisky was a heavy sleeper – she, during their lengthy travel to Agna Qel’a, had slept through the ‘ _Argument’_ between Kurapika and Leorio. Gon still shudders thinking about it, the ship nearly in shambles in the aftermath. He gulps, suddenly grateful for the maintained peace between the two of them at this moment, and he remembers the ache his ears had gained after trying to stop their brawl, loud voices shouting on both sides. He _nearly_ got his arm cut off with the sharp piece of rock that Kurapika had accidentally bended his way. His brows furrow – he _can’t_ even remember what the two were arguing about. All he remembered were teary voices, and forced apologies, and broken –

Gon breathes in sharply, biting his tongue to press his lips into a thin line, trying to stop the involuntary smile that threatens to spread throughout his face. He shakes his head, willing the thoughts and memories to the back of his mind, knowing this isn’t the time for _reminiscing._ That could be reserved for later, and maybe even do so with the rest, but not _now._ Right now, as he walks further into the cold room, was all about Zoldyck.

“I’m not like you, Zoldyck,” he says, curt and short, staring down at Zoldyck.

“The more you say that, the more I don’t believe you,” he retorts, snarling, sharp teeth on display – to threaten, Gon supposes.

“I don’t care if you don’t,” Gon says easily, and he grabs Zoldyck’s chin in a tight, unrelenting grip, his thumb swiping over the burnt scar on the side of his jaw, gold eyes glistening darkly at the sharp hiss that falls from Zoldyck’s bleeding lips, trapping Zoldyck’s unwilling eyes in a heated gaze with his, “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Burn your own jaw, and you’ll see,” Zoldyck snarls out.

Gon tightens his grip, presses on the scar harder, ignoring the vulgar insults that spills out from Zoldyck’s potty mouth. “I asked you a question, Zoldyck,” he says, sharp in tone, leaning down to pull Zoldyck’s face closer to his, shallow breaths ghosting over his lips, “I expect a proper answer.”

“And _I_ expect you to eat shit and die,” Zoldyck says, hissing, and Gon’s brow furrows when he notices blood dripping down Zoldyck’s chin, gaze falling down to his own hand, crimson paint trickling down to the juncture between his index and thumb, warm on his skin like melted honey, “But we can’t all get what we want, now can we?”

“Okay,” Gon says slowly, the consonants rolling off his tongue roughly, “I’ll give you another chance, then,” he tilts his head, and hardens his gaze, “Do you remember the last Avatar, Zoldyck?”

_Bingo._

Something shifts in Zoldyck, blue eyes widening in recognition, and the skin under his hand tightening. Gon looks at Zoldyck, a determined flare in his gaze, and pulls Zoldyck’s ear to his lips, mimicking what he had done to him a few nights ago – but, this time, hostility is clear in their eyes, and blood is both on their skin. They aren’t dancing under the warm graze of the moonlight, and there are no dreamy sceneries to glass their gazes, and there aren’t any masks to hide away the demons lurking in their eyes. This time, he’s holding Zoldyck’s skin between his hands with the intent to bruise, and they gaze at each other with threaded poison, and their demons are themselves, harshly breathing down on each other. This time, nothing is hidden from one another – not Lua’s identity, not Gon’s intentions.

“You were nine, weren’t you?” Gon whispers, lips pressed against the shell of Zoldyck’s ear, “I was nine, too, at that time. I hardly remember what happened,” he pretends to hum thoughtfully, “How about you, Killua?” the name leaves a venomous taste in Gon’s mouth, and he smiles at the flinch of Zoldyck’s shoulders, “Do you remember what happened, Killua? I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“Why are you even asking me this?” Zoldyck says, “You heard of the rumors. Hell, there’s a bounty on my head for this fucking reason.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of the rumors, alright,” Gon says, “But not from you, Killua.”

“Stop calling me that,” Zoldyck hisses, attempts to pull his face back, but his grip is unyielding to his ministrations.

“Come on, _Killua_ , won’t you tell me what happened?” Gon presses on, “If you do, maybe I’ll get a healer to heal your burns.”

Zoldyck ignores him, a growl leaving his throat. “Fucking stop calling me that, you piece of shit,” he gnarls out, “No one – but my family – gets to call me that. And that, especially, includes _you._ ”

Gon sighs, his patience running low. “Zoldyck,” he says, knowing there’s no point in prolonging this game, and the volume of his voice raises involuntarily, echoing throughout the small room, “Just tell me what happened with the fucking Avatar!”

Zoldyck reels, freeing his jaw from Gon’s loosening grip. “Why do you want to fucking _know_?”

“ _BECAUSE HE WAS MY FUCKING FATHER_!” his chest constricts as the words leave his tongue, and suddenly tears are welling up in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away desperately, but they only fall to his cheeks, shaking as he stands from the floor, “He… he was my father. The Avatar was my father –” he sucks in a breath, stuttering in his speech, “– and I just want to know. I _just_ want to know what happened to him,” he sighs, running a hand over his face, and says in a broken whisper, “Please.”

“The Avatar was your father,” Zoldyck repeats, his tone uncaring, “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Why…” Gon starts, trying to regain steadiness with slow breaths, “…would I lie about something like that?”

Zoldyck shrugs, frustratingly casual. “Lots of reasons,” he says, blinking slowly, “Even if you were the Avatar’s son – and I know you’re _not_ – I wouldn’t tell you,” he pauses, yawning, “I don’t even remember that much, anyways.”

“How do _I_ know you’re not lying?” Gon says, repeating Zoldyck’s words a while ago, snorting at the glare Zoldyck sends his way.

“Because I’m _not_ , and if you don’t trust me, then what’s the –”

Gon cuts Zoldyck off with a burst of laughter. “Trust _you_?” he shakes his head, leaning down to trace the skin under Zoldyck’s eyes with his thumb, brushing over his sharp cheekbones, “Zoldyck, the moment that I trust you is the moment that I lose my mind.”

“Then why the fuck are you bothering to ask _me_ what happened with the damn Avatar?”

“Because _you_ were the one who killed him!” Gon exclaims, fisting his hair in frustration, “Wasn’t it you, Zoldyck? Wasn’t it you who stopped the flow of his blood? Wasn’t it you who killed the Avatar in less than a minute? Wasn’t it _you_ , Zoldyck, who killed the peacekeeper of nations for the sake of goddamned coins!” he sighs, heavy, “Trust me, Zoldyck, if I had other choices to find out what happened to my father, I would,” he looks at Zoldyck, glaring, “But I don’t.”

“Well,” Zoldyck says, letting out a huff as he tilts his head, “That doesn’t sound like _my_ fucking problem.”

Gon blinks, and it takes him a second to process Zoldyck’s words. “You’re just making this harder for yourself,” he grits out, squinting his eyes as he tilts his head, taking in the sight of Zoldyck’s smug smirk, “But, fine, I’ll play your game,” he walks closer, fingertips ablaze with the beginnings of flames, reveling in the widening of Zoldyck’s eyes, his smirk fading away into a thoughtful frown, “Where do you want me to start, Zoldyck?”

“The fuck are you on about?”

“Don’t play dumb –”

“ _Gon_ ,” he freezes in his steps at the sleepy drawl that drags across the room, and he slowly turns to face Bisky with a sheepish smile, alike to the smile of a cookie-grappling child caught red-handed, the flames from his hands fading in a fraction of a second, residual ash fluttering from the tips of his fingers, “What are you doing here?”

“Er, to confront Zoldyck?” he says, and he doesn’t _mean_ to sound like a guilty child caught eating dessert before dinnertime – Bisky just, somehow, seamlessly manages to wring that out of him, her stern gaze too alike to Mito-san’s for him to merely shake off, head flooding with the memories of all the times he had received a scolding from Mito-san.

Bisky yawns, head leaning against her palm. “Gon, go back to sleep,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to wake herself, “It’s too early for this. You can ask Zoldyck when the others are awake.”

“ _What_?” Gon asks, incredulous in his tone, frowning, “Why should I need supervision? Bisky, he –”

“I _know_ what he did, Gon,” Bisky says, lips pressed into a thin line, her tone leaving no room for arguments, “But the problem is I know what _you_ want to do to him, Gon,” he stutters in his movements, and his face pales at Bisky’s admission, “And I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you go down the same road as Zoldyck did, alright?”

“Bisky, it’s not the same thing –”

Bisky sighs deeply, and stares at Gon with a tired gaze. “You can’t keep fooling yourself with those words, Gon,” she says, her ruby eyes too knowing to merely look doll-like, “You may try to keep defending yourself with the excuse of ‘ _I want justice, he wants money_ ,’ but you know that doesn’t change anything – because, at the end of the day, the blood in your hands is still blood. It doesn’t matter who it belongs to, or the reason why you did it, Gon,” she pauses, clenching her jaw, “I’m not saying you excuse what he did, or put in the past, or play friends together. All I’m saying is you think before you act. Weigh the consequences before you dive in headfirst.”

Gon presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, brows knitted.

“Get some air and wait for the others to wake up,” Bisky says, hands around her hips, “Clear your head, Gon. Zoldyck won’t go anywhere.”

He relents, biting his tongue to choke down the words that itched to leave his throat, hardened gaze directed on the floor as he walks out of the room with loud steps, back burning with the Zoldyck’s trailing eyes. He clenches on the knob, lets his eyes meet Zoldyck’s cold gaze once more, before he scowls, shutting the door close with a slam that syncs with the thunder through the clouds. The rain lessened, but the ship was still slippery, and Gon slowly breathes through his nose, raindrops wetly sticking to his skin. His mind is still distorted from Bisky’s words, and he leans against the door, throat tightening as he stares down at the drying blood staining his hand.

 _The blood in your hands is still blood_ , her voice mindlessly echoes in his mind, words carving scars in his chest like sharp knives, and Gon clenches his eyes shut, wishing the blackness would just consume the entirety of him, head aching with unwanted thoughts, _it doesn’t matter who it belongs to, or the reason why you did it._

* * *

Killua’s eyes narrow into slits as he stares at the door slamming shut, the thunder roaring only outside the confines of this room. He leans back against the wall, grunting at the numbing of his arms at the position, raising his brows at the specks of blood daubing the pale ridges of his collarbones, and he feels a longer trail of metallic scarlet dripping down his neck in driblets. The ghost of Gon’s touch haunts him, and he sucks in a sharp inhale, remembering how those fingers trailed over the fragile patches of his skin, pressing roughly into scars and scabs. He _loathed_ it – loathed the way how Gon stood over him, cold amber eyes staring right into his, and the way he touched him so _easily_ , not a hint of hesitance in his movements as he gripped his chin upwards. They were meant to be scared because of _him._ He killed the Avatar with only the movements of his hands in under less than a minute, and yet Gon – someone who claimed to be the Avatar’s _son_ – touched him like one would touch an unmoving _mannequin_. His burns hurt with the pressing of Gon’s hands, and his hands shake with regret. _He_ aches with regret. He should have killed that man the moment he saw him prancing around in that hideous outfit.

 _No matter_ , he thinks to himself, staring at the sight of a half-asleep Krueger, her body slumping over the wooden chair, _regrets won’t change anything. I just need to buy myself time, and gain their trust – how I’ll do that, I don’t know, but I_ will. _Once they lower their guard, that’s when I’ll strike. I’ll kill them – all of them._

He hums thoughtfully, remembering the way Krueger had stopped Gon, saying that torture wasn’t an appealing method to one’s morals. He snorts at that, rolling his eyes. Gaining their trust should be easy enough, and, after Krueger’s display with Gon, these nitwits were only as softhearted as he assumed. Kindness is their weakness, and Killua will make certain he’ll use that to his advantage – he would just need to show emotional vulnerability, another trait of weakness, and he should have them under his palms. Maybe, he could reveal what he had gone through his childhood – he wasn’t too affected by it, of course, as it did build his character, and harnessed his skills to perfection, but it seemed horrifying to an outsider’s perspective, he supposed. Gon, however, proved to be a trickier case. He could care less of what Killua had gone through as a young, innocent child, and he’d most likely even say that Killua deserved it. But his friends – they were _his_ weakness. Gon caves in easily to what his friends say to him – if he isn’t too distorted by his desires, Killua noticed – and Killua would only need to gain Gon’s friendship. The travel from Agna Qel’a to Ba Sing Se would take more than a few weeks, and that should be enough time for Killua.

Gon would certainly visit him again, and he’s certain, at that time, Gon would hold no mercy anymore. He knows Gon isn’t too determined in avenging the Avatar, and he’s most probably more affected by the pitying state of their world, but he knows Gon would harness all that anger and spite as his defense. If he really was the Avatar’s son, there would be a probability of Gon sinking into the deceiving pull of _what-ifs_ and _could-have-beens_ , but that would only last in the heat of the moment. Gon seemed to be the type to see things for what they were, but he let his own desire for change hinder him. Killua could use that, too.

_You’re so beautiful._

Brutally honest. Killua should have no problem trying to maneuver around that, and he could use it to his advantage. He could pretend to be desperately affected by Gon and his flames, pretend to deny himself from voicing out his hurt, and make himself look pitiful. Gon wouldn’t fall for that, no, but Killua would only need to bat his lashes for Gon to falter. He knows that Gon still thinks of _Lua_ , an entity he must have separated from Killua himself, and he would only need to mimic Lua’s –

_I really didn’t want to stop looking at your eyes, Lua._

Eyes. _His_ eyes – something that Gon had so openly admired that night. Something Gon _still_ openly admires, given the times he refused to look anywhere but his eyes. Killua noted that Gon liked to stare right at them – not at his face exactly, but his eyes – and he knows enough tricks to distract Gon with them. It’s another method he’s been taught – Kalluto’s specialty, actually. Distraction by flattery. They liked to prolong their assignments, and they liked to draw it out, like forcing out a dagger stabbed into someone else’s chest, no matter how quick-paced they seemed – they _adored_ the process, even said that was the beauty of what they did. Killua disagreed, of course – because there was _no_ beauty in what they did; killing was a brutal, merciless act that required both abandon and precision, funnily enough – but, for now, he would need to use Kalluto’s methods. Prolong the process, fluster the target with flattery.

 _Very good, Killua_ , the voice praises, slithering into his thoughts, _use what you can to your own advantage. Let yourself think, not feel. You’ve done enough weeping yesterday. Now is the time to wake up. Get your emotions under wraps._

Killua nods in affirmation. Whatever he felt for Gon was only a fleeting moment where he had his vision blurred by his own desperation for something he could never have. No more of that. Everything that involved him would only poison itself with time, and Killua had no qualms watching it do so. He’d been a fool to think that what he had with Gon – a friendship, something more, whatever else; Killua doesn’t really care, can’t bring himself to, anymore – would last. It burned out like a weak flame against the strong winds, and Killua knows there’s no stopping the inevitable. He was a poisonous ivy that tainted everything else that touched him, and there was no point in clinging on to what was dying. No more of that, he swears to himself. He may have made a mistake with Gon of not killing him instantly, but that’s alright, no point in reminiscing of what could have been if he did. This isn’t the end for himself yet. He can still find an opening in these confines. He can always work his way through the maze. This may be the labyrinth, but there was always a thread to the end.

If there wasn’t, he’ll make one himself.

Krueger yawns, interrupting the reverie of his thoughts, and Killua squints, quickly spotting the opening Krueger had set for herself. “Why didn’t you let him?” he says, and he tries to sound less curious, more cautious.

Krueger stares at him, and Killua squirms against the chains, her gaze eerily knowing. “You would have never given in,” she says, shrugging casually, “He would just be wasting his energy trying to coax answers from you. I’m sure your family has trained you for situations like this. Probably some defense mechanism you’d use with your bloodbending to shield yourself from the fire. If you could stop someone else’s blood flow, then you could heal yourself from your own burns.”

Killua hums, tilting his head as he stares at Krueger inquisitively. Krueger wasn’t too bad, he reluctantly admits. She certainly knew the game that she was playing – but, pity for her, Killua has been playing it longer. Layering the truth with another truth, and Killua nearly commends her for it – how clever. He would have never guessed if he hadn’t done it for himself. Krueger was clearly knowledgeable in the practices of bending, but he knew she also didn’t want Gon to use such an unethical method – not even for an assassin like him. She’d done it for Gon’s sake.

“True,” he says, nodding, “Do you know why I’m not healing myself?”

Krueger squints her eyes. “You can’t move your hands, and you’d need water to heal. You can’t sweat here, either,” Krueger easily says, “It’s cold enough for you to stay dry, but not too cold that you'd break out in sweat.”

Killua smirks. “You really thought this out, didn’t you?” he remarks, “You’re correct. However, there’s another reason. Do you want to try and guess it?”

Krueger crosses her arms. “No,” she says, “I’m not too involved in the medical fields of waterbending. It bores me to death.”

Killua tilts his head, raising his brows in interest – he knows why Krueger is doing this, after all. “Pity. Healing is one of waterbending’s most interesting and useful properties, but okay,” he says slowly, “Let me tell you, then,” he smiles toothily, but in no way is it meant to be seen as friendly, “I can heal myself without water by bloodbending, but there’s, as always, an exception to that. I can only heal internal injuries,” his smirk widens when understanding dawns upon Krueger’s face, her eyes widening as though she had seen a silver lining within his words.

Krueger’s brows furrow, and he knows the exact moment she realized she fell right into his trap. “You’re only saying this, so I’d owe you something, aren’t you?” she asks, suspicion overt in her tone.

Killua laughs, and it’s a biting sound that grates his own ears. “I wish,” he says, “I’m saying it to repay what you’ve done for me back there.”

“Who says I’ve done it for you?” Krueger says, brows raised.

“No one, of course, but I still don’t want you to fall under the assumption that I owe you shit,” he says, shrugging easily, “That would’ve been exhausting to deal with.”

“Right,” Krueger says, unbelieving, “I’ve got a question for you, Zoldyck, and I’ve been itching to ask this one.”

“Make it interesting, then,” he says, “Can’t promise I’d answer it, though.”

Krueger hums in agreement, placing both her hands in her lap, looking all prim and proper with her bright dress and intact hairstyle. “Why don’t you believe Gon is the Avatar’s son?” she asks, chuckling at the telltale, though subtle, widening of his eyes, “What, do you really think I’ve been asleep the whole time?”

“For the most part,” he answers curtly, scoffing.

Krueger bellows, and he’s surprised at the grace threaded in her loud laughter. “Zoldyck, my senses stay alert even when I’m asleep,” she says, wiping away feigned tears from her eyes, “I was awake the moment Gon unlocked the metal from the doors,” she pauses, and laughter quickly fades away from her eyes, blinking slowly as she looks at him, “You haven’t answered the question, though, Zoldyck.”

Killua rolls his eyes. “How could _I_ believe that Gon’s really the Avatar’s son?” he says, more a statement than a question, “For all I know, this could all be a ruse.”

Krueger’s brows raise in interest, a mischievous glint shining in her eyes, lips twisting into a playful smirk.

Killua’s brows crease in confusion, gaze narrowing. “What the fuck are you smiling about?”

“So, it’s Gon now, huh?” she drawls teasingly, wiggling her brows suggestively.

Killua only frowns. “Yes,” he answers shortly, baffled at the sudden change of the atmosphere – lighter, somehow, and less strained, “I’ve decided that calling him _the man_ is excessive and would only waste my energy,” he says, shrugging at his own words, rolling his eyes in annoyance at the widening of Krueger’s teasing smirk, “Besides, I’d just call him by his surname, but I don’t know what it is…” he groans, “Fucking gods, stop looking at me like that!”

Krueger ignores his exclaim, only pulls her chair closer to him. “Do you want to _know_ his surname?”

Killua’s face falters at her words, and he looks at her with a thoughtful look, head tilted. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, huffing, and quickly catches Krueger’s overexcited grin with a harsh glare, “ _Not_ because I want to know shit about him, but because it’d be more efficient for me to call everyone else by their surnames. Then, no one else would have a false perception of familiarity.”

 _Prolong the process_ , he reminds himself, squinting his eyes at Krueger’s smug grin, _fluster them with flattery – not so much that they become suspicious, but not so less that they don’t notice._

“Freecss,” Krueger answers, leaning lazily against the wooden chair.

Killua blinks slowly, lips pressed together tightly – the name too familiar in his ears, and he refuses to let himself attach another face to that name; a name that unwillingly brought in a flood of unsought memories in his head. “I’m not calling him that,” he says, his tone coarse.

“…because your familiarity with him isn’t a _false perception_?”

Killua yells back a half-witted insult, voice teetering on the tip of a screech alike to his mother’s, and his face bursts in a deep red, cheeks warming – _both_ in anger and embarrassment. “Shut up, you fucking old hag!” he harrumphs in triumph when Krueger pauses her teasing, gaze narrowing as she stares down at him. Killua merely assumed she was older than she looked, her eyes too perceptive to be anything but – and her sensitivity to his insults that pertain to age only confirms his assumptions.

“You damn brat, what did I tell you about calling me _that_!”

Killua snickers, but he doesn’t bother to respond, letting himself fall into a soothing silence, and he’s almost surprised at how, suddenly, at ease Krueger is with him, her body free from any tension – arms loosely crossed against her chest, eyes struggling to stay open as she falls back asleep, only a few steps away from reaching him. He knows Krueger has come here with the intention to grasp their situation, to scrutinize him at a close distance, and she must’ve sated herself with her said observation – only a few hours in, and already dozing off the job of guarding him. Krueger seemed childish on the surface, but he knows she knew more than she let on. At this very moment, while Killua is staring at her, eyes sharp, she could be feigning sleep, sensing his movements despite her closed eyes. Killua stills, and carefully takes in the sight of her, makes certain that there isn’t a finger that moves too precisely to merely be a movement from sleep.

Her eyes rake over her childlike face, seeming innocent and pure from the world’s poison, but he knows that Krueger is everything but. She seemed friendly, but overly alert – in the sense that she easily let people in, but right in the moment she catches a misstep, that’s when she lets out her claws. Killua praises her for her trick, but he isn’t easily led astray. He can tell what’s a rotten apple painted in a deceivingly bright crimson from the fresh batch. She isn’t rotting in the way that he is, no, but she’s rotting all the same – in what way, Killua is yet to figure out.

She snores, and Killua huffs.

_They’re making this too easy for me._

* * *

The sun gleams in the sky, and slowly by slowly, the hurricane comes to a halt, the heavy, dark clouds fading from view, revealing the warm scenery of the sunlight glimmering on the ocean’s waves, and Leorio’s chest heaves with a relieved sigh, stepping out the cabin, wincing at the slippery floors of the ship. He quickly bends the water out of the ship and into the ocean, rolling his eyes at Zepile’s excited whoops, running around the ship like an overenergetic child. Palm stands beside him, arms crossed and face cautious, gaze directed on the sky.

“You think there’ll be another hurricane?” Palm asks, wiping her hands on her dress, worry clear in her tone, “The ship nearly got toppled by the rain yesterday.”

Leorio nods, lips pressing into a thin line, looking at the sky with an uneasy look. “I don’t know either,” he says, “I hardly got a wink of sleep last night. I thought we were going to sink for a moment.”

The prospect sets an anxious air around them, and Leorio breathes in, swallowing the heavy lump down his throat, the silence stretching on for long seconds.

“I’ll talk about this with the captain,” Palm says, clearing her throat, smiling at him as she turns to walk to the wheelhouse, “Be careful with Zoldyck, Leorio!”

“I will!”

He walks across the floor, heart hammering against his sternum, and as he finds the small door before him, his hands slathered with sweat as he slowly unlocks the metal, hesitance pronounced in his movements. He opens the door, wincing at the creaking that echoes in his ears, too loud for a day too quiet. His chest flutters at the sight of Kurapika and Bisky playing cards with one another, pleased to know that, despite the deadly assassin in their grasp, they still found joy with one another between the dull moments of guarding Zoldyck under the dimmed lights of the cold rooms. The feeling is quickly chased away by another one, a sharp tug in his chest, when he sees Gon – eyes blank, posture tight; seemingly a different entity from the Gon he’s come to know over the past few months – standing over Zoldyck, and he could feel Gon’s own itch at having Zoldyck stand so close to him, yet so unreachable in his grasp. Leorio knows that Kurapika and Bisky had forced Gon to wait until Zoldyck has been healed.

Leorio wouldn’t want to make Gon wait any longer, knowing how much Gon had been waiting for this very moment, and walks into the room, makes himself known as he closes the door shut. Kurapika and Bisky look up from their game, a subtle joy shining brightly in their eyes – and his chest feels swarmed with butterflies at the sight, their long, ticklish wings fluttering in alacrity against the bones of his ribs.

“Leorio,” Kurapika says, standing from the chair to walk towards Leorio, sending him a cautionary look as he approaches both of them, “Thank the gods you’ve finally arrived.”

Leorio offers a shaky smile to Kurapika, but his attention is stolen by the sight of Gon and Zoldyck in his peripheral. “Uh, why did you need me to heal Zoldyck, by the way?” Leorio asks, brow raised as he turns to look at Kurapika, an inquisitive look in his eyes, “You don’t seem to be the type who’d take mercy on… well, an assassin, and especially an assassin who killed the Avatar.”

“Trust me, I’m not,” Kurapika reassures, hands raised up, sighing as he briefly turns to look at Gon and Zoldyck, “But Bisky was insistent, and you know how Bisky gets when she wants something,” he crosses his arms, shaking his head, “So, we’ve come to a compromise. You would heal Zoldyck before Gon could…” Kurapika hesitates in his words, and Leorio furrows his brows, a sinking feeling in his chest, knowing that, whatever words that were stuck in Kurapika’s throat, it held poison, poison that Kurapika wasn’t willing to spill out, because Kurapika, like Gon, was brutally honest to a point, but was still tactful in his words, “…ask what he wants from Zoldyck, and Gon, well, he wants a _lot_ of answers from Zoldyck. To coax them out of Zoldyck…” he sighs again, running a hand over his face, and Leorio wants to put his hand on Kurapika’s shoulders, squeeze them and say it’s alright – it was a lie, of course, because hardly anything was alright, but he supposed those words still brought comfort, no matter how minimal, “…that would entirely be up to Gon.”

“Was that your compromise?” Leorio asks, quivers running down his spine when his gaze meets Zoldyck’s callous ones, his eyes viciously beautiful, “You’d make Gon wait until Zoldyck would get healed, and once he did, he’d do anything – absolutely _anything_ by any means – to get his answers from Zoldyck.”

Kurapika winces, a worried crease in his forehead, but he nods, stiff. “Yes.”

“All about the Avatar, huh?” and, though he meant this as something to ponder about, words that danced around if whether or not a dead man was worth the ruining of Gon, it seemed that Kurapika had heard his words in a different light, the expression on his face hardening into a subtle anger – funnily enough, everything about Kurapika, a bright blur of colors shining against the darkness of his vision, was subtle.

“The Avatar was his father, Leorio,” Kurapika says, tone clipped, and annoyance suddenly itches Leorio like a persistent flea, “You don’t get to tell him how he should react to the all of it.”

“I never implied _that_ , Kurapika,” Leorio says, gaze drilling into Kurapika’s back, agitated at how he _always_ seemed to refuse eye contact whenever they would get into an argument – an irritating attempt of simultaneously saving his pride and ignoring Leorio, “I just don’t think the Avatar – who, let me remind that head of yours, is _dead_ – is worth all this. We – Gon, Zepile, and I – went to capture the Zoldyck for the money, but now –”

“ _What_ , and that makes everything better?” Kurapika says, crossing his arms, finally turning to look at him, a burning flare in his gaze, “Of course, for you, it’s okay to risk your life for the money, but when it comes to defending the honor of your family, suddenly it’s too much for _you_ –”

“It’s not that, Kurapika!” he nearly yells, struggling to control the volume of his voice, “It’s not just his life Gon’s sacrificing here – his soul, his morals, his –”

“You don’t have room to talk, Leorio!” Kurapika presses his fingers into his chest, and Leorio nearly stumbles backwards at the force, jaw slacking when he bends a portion of the ground beneath them, planting the block right unto his feet, standing (floating?) at the same height as Leorio, breath stolen at the bright red that shines in Kurapika’s eyes – something he’d seen more than once, yet he still stands on the ground with awe, “You don’t know how it feels when your own family –”

“What is it with you thinking you’re the only one with _burdens_ here?” Leorio says, tightly gripping Kurapika’s shirt, pulling him close enough that their breaths entwine, “So, your life isn’t a damn cakewalk! Well, neither is ours!”

Kurapika stills, outrage overt in the scarlet of his eyes. “You –”

“Leorio,” comes Gon’s voice, and Leorio lets go of his grip on Kurapika, quickly faces Gon, nearly flinching at the uncharacteristic dull blankness of his amber eyes, “Could you just heal Zoldyck? Kurapika can wait.”

Leorio flushes red at the implication, but he nods nonetheless. He glares at Kurapika as he walks across the room to Zoldyck, ignoring Bisky’s raised brow and narrowed eyes. His steps falter as he nears, sweating profusely at the vivid sight of Zoldyck, and he feels the need to squint, quietly wondering if Zoldyck was merely a vessel that some god was using to teach them a lesson. His eyes seemed too bright, too beauteous to merely be mortal.

He stops, standing at near enough distance for his bending to reach Zoldyck. He opens his water pouch, and he feels as though he would melt into a puddle under the limelight of everyone else’s attention. He gulps as he meets Zoldyck’s eerily blank gaze, analytical of every movement he made towards him, and Leorio finds himself surprised at the lack of retort he receives from Zoldyck – someone, as he heard from Palm’s stories, who was cheekier than one would assume of him. He bends the water over Zoldyck’s burnt patches of skin, humming to himself as the remnants of the burns fade away with the water, the Zoldyck’s skin perfectly porcelain once more. Leorio nearly marvels.

He bends back the water into his pouch, and he nods stiffly under Gon’s assertive gaze.

He turns away from the two, sharing an uneasy look with Bisky, walking further away from the pair. He huffs as he passes by Kurapika, ignoring whatever else the brat had to say to him, knowing it would only result in another shouting match – and he would really rather not, especially not in front of the assassin. He opens the door, and looks at Gon one last time, frowning when Gon stays still where he stands, merely looking at Zoldyck.

He must be waiting for the rest to leave. He wanted to be alone with Zoldyck.

The thought leaves a trail of goosebumps over Leorio’s skin, and he hurries to walk out the room, releasing a shuddering breath when he hears the door close behind him. Shakily, he walks to the ship’s railings, leaning against them as he watches the flickering rays of the sun dance over the ocean, feeling himself entranced at the sight. Right now, right here, he could ignore whatever it may be Gon planned to do to Zoldyck – who, in Leorio’s distorted perspective, is merely another victim of fate. Weren’t they all? That isn’t to say that he isn’t angered by all that the Zoldycks had done – he is, and there’s hardly anything he _isn’t_ angered over – but he just doesn’t think they’re worth something losing yourself over. He didn’t want to see Gon – someone whose eyes Leorio could never forget, someone Leorio treasured with the entirety of his heart, someone who ran through the world with a child’s delight and curiosity – lose the essence of himself merely for avenging what has passed in the past, for trying to chase a ghost meant to be buried deep into the ground.

Maybe, he would never understand. He would probably never understand their vengeance, or their desperate attachment to their pasts, or their vindictive drive because, as quick as he was to anger, he was quicker in forgiveness. He’d never been good at keeping grudges – a trait he was always praised for, a trait meant for healers – and he supposed there was only one disadvantage to that.

He would never understand.

He could only watch from the sidelines as Kurapika and Gon flung themselves into the fire, and let themselves drown into the sea, and that would be the only thing he’d be good for.

“Leorio,” it’s Kurapika, he notes tiredly, “I’m… not going to apologize.”

Leorio snorts, shaking his head, staring down at the ocean. “I know you won’t,” he says, “I know how much your clan means to you,” the memories of when Kurapika had shared his story about his clan, about his hunt for the scarlet eyes under one late night in Gaoling floods his mind in waves, and Leorio can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, “We all have different priorities, I guess.”

 _Mine is my friends_ , he says in his head, something he’d never admit in front of another pair of eyes watching.

“Yes, we do,” Kurapika says, putting his arms over the railing, staring at the sky, “But I hope you know that I didn’t mean to insinuate that I’m the only one who has hardships. Trust me, Leorio, I know I’m not, and I –”

Leorio smiles as he turns his head to look at Kurapika, gentle, and it seems enough to falter Kurapika’s words. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Kurapika,” he says, nudging Kurapika’s shoulder with his, “I understand.”

_I’ll try to – with my everything._

“Thank you, Leorio,” Kurapika says, too soft against the sound of the waves, but Leorio hears it nonetheless.

He opens his mouth to respond, but his words are stolen away by the sight their ship is sailing right into.

His face pales, and it only seemed Kurapika hadn’t noticed yet.

He drags Kurapika away from the railings, his hand held tight in his, urgency clear in both his tone and movements, ignoring Kurapika’s bewildered questions as he drags them to the wheelhouse.

“We need to go to the captain!”

* * *

His foot taps into the ground in repetitive motions, and the sound grates his ears, but he maintains his movements, staring at Zoldyck’s pale skin, absolved from any burn scars that had once tainted the ivory planes of skin. He scowls as he continues to stare at Zoldyck, and he isn’t too sure of what to feel about it. Zoldyck’s unblemished skin, hardly any scars seen by his sight, and as pale as a mannequin’s, looked like parchment, and he was meant to be the ink. But he had missed it, he supposed, to some degree – the way Zoldyck’s skin had looked like with red splotches from _his_ fingertips. It reminded him of Zoldyck’s vulnerability, and how Zoldyck was only human like him – with skin that would easily scar, with eyes that would glass with tears, with lips that would bleed from bites. Cruelly beautiful, beautifully cruel.

“Why did you let him heal me?” Zoldyck says, voice oddly rough, hair reminiscent to a bird’s nest, and it’s a laughable sight. Gon would have laughed.

But he only presses his lips tighter, tension clear in his bones, walking closer to Zoldyck, holding up his jaw in his palms. “I can’t burn what’s broken, Zoldyck,” he says, unblinking.

Bisky rustles at that, standing from her chair. “Gon –”

“No, Bisky,” he says, holding his gaze with Zoldyck, “You promised me. You said I could do this.”

“Gon, we still have to –”

“ _NO_!”

Bisky kneads her forehead with her hands, but she doesn’t relent, standing firmer on her ground. “Gon, you don’t understand,” she says, shaking her head as she walks closer to Gon, “I have to –”

But he doesn’t hear the rest of her sentence, whatever it may have been, when a loud crash shakes the whole ship, the door falling open from the impact. Gon loses his footing, finding himself tumbling down the ground, and his eyes widen in shock at the water that suddenly floods the room. He chokes on his breath when he finds himself falling from the room, and being pushed into the deep sea, losing the coherency of his thoughts, merely a buzzing noise in his head, the freezing water all around him, overcoming the best of his senses.

 _Too much, too much, too fast_. He forces his eyes open, and the lack of air hurts his chest, swimming upwards into the open air, sucking in a sharp breath, heavy but shallow. He looks around, and he should pay attention to his surroundings, and heat his body with his inner fire, teeth chattering from the freezing temperature of the water, and he _should._ But he can’t, his head too frantic to even try to be sensical, paying attention to only one thought – Zoldyck. Zoldyck whose hands are locked in chains. Zoldyck who can’t swim in this state.

He swims closer to the sinking ship, and fear makes him desperate.

_Zoldyck, where the hell are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah, that took a turn!!
> 
> however, i hope u guys enjoyed the update:D thank u sm 4 reading!!! i adore ur kudos & comments sm aaaa!!!<333


	9. ardet nec consumitur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ardet nec consumitur,** _burned but not destroyed_

_Tick, tock, tick, tock,_ is a steady sound that echoes throughout the ice walls, a repetitive buzz that replaces the eerie silence of the vast manor, and a thoughtful hum falls past his lips, fingers repeatedly tapping on the armrest of the chair. Illumi stares pensively at the wall, lips pursed in thought, and he tilts his head, averting his gaze to the pendulum laying on a wooden table, metal balls moving in a push-and-pull motion, an equilibrium. He clicks his tongue, standing from the chair, and walks out of the room with a graceful stride, waist-length hair flowing with his movements. His brows furrow when he reaches the front of Kalluto’s door – he knows they were with Killua the moment the assignment was delivered to him, and it’s quite unlikely of Killua to take longer than a day. He usually comes back to the manor within a day, completing his assignment in less than a few hours.

It's been two, nearing three, days since Killua had took off, and Illumi knows there’s something out of place. Killua, if he needed to stay longer outside the manor to complete his assignment, or if his target was located outside the Northern Water Tribe, would usually write them a letter, informing them of his leave. But there were no letters – not even a messily-written note stuck to the walls by an icicle – and Illumi knows something has gone wrong. It _must_ involve the hunt – nearly hundreds of hunters permeated the Northern Water Tribe to capture Killua, and Illumi knows Killua hardly bothers to hide himself from the intruders. He tilts his head in confusion, stopping in his steps. Whether or not Killua had gone out with a disguise to hide his identity, it _wouldn’t_ matter. Killua should’ve been able to take them out in less than a second.

He opens Kalluto’s door, tutting at the poorly-placed lock. He rolls his eyes at the knife that Kalluto easily throws, only atop his head, and crosses his arms, strutting forward. “You missed, Kalluto,” he says, leaning against Kalluto’s shelf of disfigured heads, scrunching his nose – it _smells._

“On purpose,” Kalluto says, shrugging, sharpening their knives with an icicle, “Mom would have my head if she found out I scarred your –” they pause, a small, mischievous smirk on their lips, “– what did she call it? _Pretty_ skin,” they snicker at Illumi’s face – a deadpan, stony features loose from his usual expression – and continues to tease, “Oh, and wasn’t there another person who described your skin in the same way? What was their name again? Hana?”

“You already know his name, Kalluto,” Illumi says, a contemplative look crossing his face, “I visited him a week ago.”

Kalluto raises their brows in interest. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Illumi answers, staring at the wall behind Kalluto – ice and ivory, delicate in its structure, but nearly impossible to break through, “He asked me quite a peculiar question, actually – about the Northern Tribe wedding traditions.”

Kalluto – impassive, stone-faced Kalluto, whose face is their best weapon; yielding into what they think, and not what they feel, always composed, and never caught surprised, cold skin, and even colder eyes – startles from their position, slanted eyes widening into circles, and a scratchy gasp falling from their lips. “ _Really_?” Kalluto says, leaping out from their bed, swirling the knife in their hands, “You’re getting _married_?”

“Rule #23,” Illumi says, “Never jump to conclusions.”

Kalluto scoffs, throwing the knife towards Illumi’s way, landing on the side of the shelf – only a few millimeters away from Illumi’s ear. “Rule #5,” Kalluto says, crossing their arms, mirroring Illumi’s position, “Always read in between the lines.”

Illumi’s hands fall to his sides, shoulder sagging, rolling his eyes at Kalluto’s determined gaze. “No, we’re not,” he says, sighing, “And, if we were to be married, I don’t see why it must be a big deal,” he walks to Kalluto’s bed, reaching up to the paper dolls hanging on the wall – paper duplicates of their father and mother, Killua, Milluki, and him, entwined together, and it was almost endearing, “Marriage is merely a contract – an arrangement with, well, an attachment,” he thumbs on the paper doll of himself, lips quirking at the details embedded in the plain white paper – the length of his hair, his clothes, his hands, “Of course, an attachment isn’t always required. Take for example: our parents,” his tongue licks over his upper lip, fiddling with the figures of their parents – his father’s bulky figure and his mother’s ostentatious silhouette, “Father only married Mother for one reason. Can you guess?”

Kalluto hums, tilting their head. “To reproduce?”

“Of a sort,” he says, fingers tracing over the doll of Killua – the edges of his figure the sharpest out of them all, but a soft, gentle feel to the paper embodying his brother, soft as a swan, but as deadly as a serpent – and he hums at the blood that seeps from the cut between the pads of his thumb, “To continue the line of assassins – Mother did, after all, come from a family, albeit not too known, of assassins,” he says, trailing to Milluki’s figure – impossibly soft, the texture plush under his hands – and he raises a brow when sudden blotches of ink stains his fingers, “They expect me to marry soon.”

“Really?” Kalluto says in surprise, “Not Killua – the heir?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, bending the ink out of his hands, suspending it into the air, and shaping it into a diamond, “They wouldn’t want to lose Killua just yet.”

“Ah,” Kalluto says, nodding their head, “I see now. This is where Hisoka comes in.”

“Yes,” Illumi says, curt, “He is, after all, the only one willing to marry a Zoldyck,” he scoffs, shaking his head as he walks to Kalluto, the corner of his lips quirking subtly – Kalluto had grown from the child hiding behind Mother’s shadow, standing on their own now; long and lithe, dressed in deep blue pieces of clothing bound together by thin strands of strings, fur sleeves loose over their hands, paper shapes scattered over their dress, and they only stand an inch shorter than him, “But, enough of that. I have a question to ask you.”

They shrug. “Ask ahead.”

“Do you remember the name of Killua’s assignment?”

Kalluto’s posture stiffens. “Yes,” they answer, “Nogg Paladiknight.”

That only confirms Illumi’s suspicions. It must be a name used to cover up – what Illumi assumes – an even more important one. Either that, or the target has met Killua before. It doesn’t matter – what matters is Illumi needs to reach them before they can step foot in Ba Sing Se. They must be hunters, and it would take more than a few weeks for the travel from the Northern Water Tribe to the Earth Kingdom’s capital. Illumi has time.

“Okay,” he says, and he walks to the door, reaching to twist the doorknob open.

“Wait,” Kalluto hurries to say, and Illumi hardly spares them a glance, unblinking, “Could I come along? I want to make sure Killua’s safe.”

He merely raises a brow. “You don’t think I can do that on my own?”

Kalluto’s gaze hardens. “You know what I mean, Illumi,” they say, rushing around the room to slide in various collections of knives into their pockets, “And, besides, I have information that could help you – _us_ , rather – along the way.”

“Okay,” he says simply, walking out from the room, standing by the threshold to tilt his head, “We leave now, by the way.”

Kalluto hums, a small smile playing on their lips, the knife in their hand shining under the dim lights of the room. “Good,” they say, nodding, walking out their room with long strides, closing their door shut. They throw the knife in their hands to the knob of the door, locking it in. They tap their foot against the floor, standing beside Illumi, arms crossed and face expectant.

“Anyone could break in,” Illumi says, brows furrowed, “Your locks are horrible.”

“I like surprises,” Kalluto says, shrugging, “Who knows what could be waiting for me by the time I arrive? A new body, missing knives, or, maybe, nothing at all,” they hum as they say those words, eyes shining in a nameless gleam, “Life is a mysterious game, brother, and its uncertainty is my favorite part.”

“Of course,” he says, lips pursed into a frown.

Life, in his own meaning, is a calculation, and every decision affected the equation. One needed to look past the big picture, and into the smallest details scattered across the landscapes – a small wave, after all, had created the ocean, and an unknowing speck of black had bloomed into the world they lived. The details make the dreamscape, and Illumi intends to pick off every detail, every trail that the hunters had left. There are no doubt-inducing uncertainties, or ill-timed surprises, if the numbers added up to the conclusion. Illumi would just need to pick out their pace, and he should have them under his radar. Easy enough, he supposed. He had done worse.

 _Hang on in there, little brother_ , he thinks, walking across the manor with firm steps, _and always remember the rules._

* * *

_Am I dead?_

He supposed not – his limbs ached with numbness, and his throat felt scratched dry, too human, too _painful_ to reach the threshold of death, something he had always believed to be the end of one’s life and the beginning of another’s, an endless dance of souls and spirits. Distorted flashes of light danced between the darkness of his closed eyelids, ambient static noises ringing in his ears, and he tries to force himself back to his dreamless sleep. He hears movements beside him, and his body stiffens involuntarily, memories suddenly flushing through his mind in tidal waves. The sound of a rough voice, the touch of calloused hands, the feel of flames searing his skin, the burning water filling his lungs – his brows furrow, and he tries to clench his hands behind his back, frowning deeply when he feels the chains adorned on them.

Slowly, he flutters his eyes open, squinting at the brightness that overwhelms his vision. He’s suddenly too aware of the sand sticking to his wet skin, and he squirms, itching to clean his body off the grainy sand. He stops his movements at the silhouette the passes by the peripheral of his eyes. He blinks – he isn’t alone, then. He frowns deeply as he cranes his neck, recognizing the faceless figure – his back was turned against Killua – like the back of his hand. Spiky, mussed hair, bronze skin, broad shoulders – of course, _he_ had to be stuck with Gon fucking Freecss, of all the people. His chest heaves with a heavy sigh.

That catches Gon’s attention, much to his dismay.

Gon runs to face him, bright eyes dulled to a lifeless shade of brown, and Killua tenses, staring at Gon’s hands, looking for any beginnings of fire. “You’re awake –” Gon tries to say, but Killua doesn’t want to hear any of it. He wants answers.

“Why am I not dead yet?” he asks, curt in his words and tone.

Gon frowns, brows creasing. “You nearly did,” he says, words slow, cautious.

“So, why didn’t I?” Killua continues on, reveling in the tensing of Gon’s posture – muscles pulled taut, face pinched tight, “I know I was drowning. I couldn’t swim – not with the chains, no – so someone must’ve…” his face sours at the words, “…rescued me,” his eyes narrow into slits at the flush in Gon’s cheeks, understanding dawning upon him, frown deepening into a scowl, “I think it’s safe to assume who that someone is.”

“Look –”

He doesn’t want to hear him speak. “What, did you only rescue me so you could burn me, huh?” Killua asks, and he knows he’s treading on a slippery slope – he shouldn’t be so careless in his words, he knows, not when he’s chained helplessly, but anger overwhelms the entirety of him, and his words fall out of his mouth in rippling waves, washing over one another in an endless push and pull, “Did you rescue me so you could get me alone? So, your friends wouldn’t be there to stop you?” he scoffs at Gon’s silence, rolling his eyes, smirking impishly, “What now? Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” Gon answers, “You don’t deserve to die easy, and I’m not going to waste anyone’s efforts by letting you drown. We still need to get you to Ba Sing Se, and collect our _rewards_ ,” he looks down on Killua, and a deep, unsettling feeling worms its way into his gut – grating and tugging, impossible to ignore, “After all, that’s your only worth. Answers _and_ rewards,” he kneels down, looking at Killua, eye to eye, “Just because I saved you from drowning, doesn’t mean I didn’t want you to die. Trust me, Killua Zoldyck, the world would be a better place without you – without _all_ of you monsters.”

“Are you going to burn me?” Killua asks, ignoring the sensation of prickling thorns jabbing against his chest.

“Are you scared?” 

Killua huffs. “Why the fuck would I be?” he merely says, and his arms itch to cross themselves – to close himself off from any prying eyes, to delude himself into shielding his soul from poisoning the bushes of white roses, to create a distance between the rough touches and his clay body. Gon looks at him – at his _eyes_ – and Killua feels as though he were only metal drawn to a magnet, mindlessly finding himself pulled into the ring of fire, the heart of the inferno, flames reduced into the individual lines in Gon’s bright irises, and molten gold infused in his mere mortal eyes. He _should_ look away, save himself from the indentation Gon’s eyes would carve beyond the surface of his flesh, but he doesn’t. This is a game without rules, and Killua doesn’t intend to lose.

“Okay,” Gon says slowly, and he stands from his position, “We should start moving.”

“Where are we, by the way,” he leans up from the ground, the sand clinging on to his back, his clothes dripping wet. He tries to stand on his own feet, but it’s a struggle without the support of his hands.

“An island,” Gon says, “I’m not sure if the others landed here, but I hope they did. It’s the closest island I’ve found, anyways,” his hands brush against his pants, wiping off the grains of sands, “But we were in the middle of the ocean. They could’ve gotten anywhere,” he pauses, a thoughtful passing across his features, “But we’ll still find each other, I’m sure of it.”

Killua’s mind is stuck on one part, and he disregards the rest of Gon’s rambling – more to himself than Killua, anyways. “ _You_ swam from there to here?” Killua nearly exclaims, pointing at the far distance of the sea, “How the hell are you still alive? No, actually, better question – how the hell are you _not_ numbed to the bones?”

Gon shrugs. “I’m a firebender,” he says, and then looks at Killua with a piercing gaze, “What about you?”

Killua huffs, averting his eyes. “I’m used to it.”

Before Gon could open his mouth to ask more unwanted questions, Killua, by some miracle, leaps up to his feet, and immediately curses himself for it, finding himself falling into the sand without the steadying support of his arms. He braces himself for the impact – face covered with wet sand, the sound of Gon’s mocking laughter, the entirety of his body in sticky grains of sand – but, instead, his head lands against something firm, and the sensation of warm skin against his cheek is impossible to ignore. His body flushes hotly, and he quickly pulls himself off Gon with a low grunt, eyes glaring as he turns his head to look at him.

“We should start looking for villages,” Gon says, starting to walk, “And gather materials – wood, food, whatever we can find. I’m not exactly sure how we’re going to get out of this island, but we _will_ ,” Gon briefly pauses in his steps, eyes burning with a fiery determination, amber flames dancing in the white of his eyes, and Killua can’t look away, “I know we will.”

He scoffs, but he doesn’t offer a response, head hung low, and he purposely slows down his steps, merely following the shadow of Gon’s steps. His limbs ache for the blank coldness in the Zoldyck manor, the feel of impossibly soft silk sheets over his skin, and the lingering smell of decaying bodies – somehow, in a sense, it was all home to him. At least, the only home Killua has ever known, and a part of him misses it – the familiarity within the icy halls, the structure the rules brought, and their twisted sense of family. A family of assassins – an oxymoron within itself because assassins were meant to kill, and families needed love to function, and there was no love left for them to share to themselves. It was a business arrangement of a sort, and they were merely bound by a name.

Killua’s chest heaves with a sigh. _That_ , certainly, had been easier to deal with than whatever mess this was called. A revenge-driven firebender who had managed to fool him for a night, who had managed to reduce him to a stumbling, idiotic mess of a man, who had managed to give Killua a taste of normalcy. But that had faded like flames against the oceans, and Killua is left to collect the ashes, and shape it into his memories. Gon – the man in the deep blue mask, and a widened grin to match – was only a lesson Killua needed to learn. Every passing moment of his life was a wave, and it was foolish to cling on to the water. Killua didn’t need attachments. He didn’t need anyone. He _couldn’t._

 _Very good,_ the voice praises, and Killua finds himself leaning into their words, another familiarity, _this is your chance. You and the man are alone together. No one else around to stop you. Remember to prolong and fluster._

Killua nods, staring at the silhouette of Gon – who’s walking into the jungle with long strides, posture firm and eyes searching – and his brows furrow into a line.

 _Prolong and fluster_ , he repeats in his head like a ceaseless mantra, _in whatever way I can._

* * *

Palm wakes up with a choked gasp, back rising from the bed in rushed movements, the feeling of water engulfing the entirety of her being still lingering in her lungs. She breathes in deeply, noisily, taking note of the darkness shrouding her vision, the bed soft under her body. Her brows furrow in confusion, and she quickly wonders how she’s gotten here. She remembers telling the captain too late – the ship sailing directly into the iceberg – and she remembers sharing a look with Kurapika and Leorio, both rushing to tell the captain of what they were heading into, a look of knowing dread. She remembers anticipating the crushing weight of the shipwreck, but she floats atop it, and her head is blank of any thoughts, trying to keep herself afloat against the strong waves of the ocean. She remembers trying to find the others – Gon, Bisky, Kurapika, anyone – but the ocean is too wide, and they’ve all swam to different parts, by then, too far to reach each other. She remembers tiring herself out, swimming aimlessly across the ocean, and her limbs giving up under her weight. She remembers the burning sensation of the sea water sliding down her throat, and she remembers the darkness of her eyelids taking over.

She, however, doesn’t remember any of _this._

She stands up from the bed with the swing of her legs, surprised to find out there were hardly any aches in her muscles. She starts to walk, trying to navigate her way out of the dark, lightless room. It’s not much of a struggle – the room is small, and its walls are compact against each other. She traces for the door, and quickly reaches for the doorknob, twisting it open. To her relief, it isn’t locked.

She stumbles in her steps, squinting her eyes to relieve the pain in her eyes upon seeing the bright lights outside the dark room. Palm shakes her head, telling herself to work through it, knowing there were far worse matters to be dealt with than this trivial one. Whomever had taken her to this ship, whomever had rescued her, she knows there was a reason for it, and she knows she was indebted – and if there was one thing Palm _loathed_ , it was owing a favor for someone else; something that you brush off, something that you think is too trite to take mind, but something that sweeps you off your feet the moment you don’t expect it. Palm had many experiences akin to such, and she wasn’t going to triple their number.

She walks across the hallway, the sunlight littering across the metal floors, and flinches in her position when she hears a series of voices. She presses herself flat against the wall, desperately hoping she was quiet enough in her steps. She wouldn’t want to alert them of her presence just yet.

“…stay focused on what we need to do?” comes an airy voice, but velvety too, and it’s odd enough to make Palm’s ears itch as she continues to listen to it, “We can’t stay far too long from the king, and I _do_ trust Youpi – trust me, I do – but it’s that little girl that I don’t trust. Who knows what she could drive His Highness to do while we’re gone?”

“Pouf-san,” comes on another voice – kinder, tolerant, easier on the ears, “Komugi merely plays _Pai Sho_ with the Fire Lord. You know she poses no threat,” Palm stiffens, eyes widening at the mention of the Fire Lord, itching to crane her neck to take a glance of the speakers, “And I’m sure Pitou-san only felt sorry for the girl. They did not mean to stray from what the Fire Lord has sent us to do, I’m certain of it, and we had hardly wasted any time. We still have plenty for accomplishing the Fire Lord’s orders.”

“See,” a different voice, this time, huffing in its tone – sweet to the ears, like dripping honey, “Even Dr. Blythe agrees.”

Palm gulps, staring at the metal walls before her, and she feels stuck where she stands, restricted in her own body, their voices fading out from her ears. She should run – far away from whomever these people are. They must be powerful if they were directly related to the Fire Lord, and Palm can’t risk anything – she knows the aristocrats themselves had participated in the hunt, even if they sent other people to do it for them. But she furrows her brows at that thought. She wouldn’t think that the Fire Lord would involve himself in the hunt, not if he meant to dispute the diplomatic ties between the Northern Water Tribe and the Fire Nation. Though the Northern Water Tribe had seen the Zoldycks as fleas needed to be caught, they still respected them for their power – their bloodbending, the fear and the respect the name had brought. She’s already heard of the tension brewing between the Earth Kingdoms and the Northern Water Tribe – ever since the Earth King had put the bounty on Killua Zoldyck’s head. She never understood it – the delicate complicacies of politics – but she knew a war could strike. Over what, Palm isn’t too sure – perhaps the Chief had wanted to beat the Zoldycks by themselves, or they wanted to keep the Zoldycks under their radar. She supposed it was quite mournful to lose one of the most powerful benders of your nation – an assassin bender, yes, but a powerful one, nonetheless.

She sighs, wondering where Zoldyck could have been right this moment. He could be dead. She knows the chains restrain him from swimming, and he can’t bend himself out of the water either, but something in her gut twists at the thought – _he isn’t dead_ , it says, to soothe or to remind, she isn’t too sure of, _Gon wouldn’t let him die, not by something that isn’t his own hands._

The words leave an inky splatter in her mind, and it spirals into a pool of thick black in her head.

Gon and Killua. Alone. Together. _Fuck._

She needed to find them. Without anyone else – at least, what she assumed; she mindlessly hoped that someone else had been along with them – to hold Gon back, she knew he wouldn’t withhold the creeping beast within him any longer. While she’s stuck in some ship with nameless strangers, Gon could be unleashing all that rage on Killua, could be burning him for all his worth, and Palm would _fail_ her mission. She and Bisky.

Her mind – the sadist that it is – conjures the image of Knov, her mentor. Lips pursed, eyes sullen, contemplative, but knowing. As if he’d expected this all along, the second he had picked her off the street, the moment he had looked into her eyes – the inevitable fall to accompany the thrilling rise. Palm had been lost once, a wanderer wandering aimlessly through the courses and crossroads of life, but she’d been found by Knov, and Bisky, and Morel. By herself.

She doesn’t want to lose that, not again. She doesn’t want to fall back into that tireless habit of molding herself into what the others had wanted – expected – to see.

 _It’s alright_ , she thinks, hands fiddling the seams of her dress, _disappointment is a given – in everything. To every bright summer, there is a bleak winter. To every searing flame, there is ash._

Her chest heaves with a sigh.

“You’re awake!”

She nearly screams at the sudden face before her, cursing herself for drifting out too far into her thoughts.

“Did I scare you?” Palm can only assume this is _Pitou-san_ , and they smile cheekily, lashes fluttering, “Heh, sorry.”

Palm makes sure to not that they do _not_ look or sound sorry. “Who are you?” she asks, and she prepares herself into a fighting stance, hands pointed. Even if Pitou wasn’t a bender – which she _greatly_ doubts – she could still press on her pressure points, make them fall to the ground with unmoving muscles and numb bones.

“Ooh, calm down, spitfire,” they taunt, sickeningly _sweet,_ their smile too wide to be unknowing of their own intentions – a sort of mischievousness threaded into the pink flesh of their lips, “I’m Neferpitou. Head of the Royal Guards of the Fire Lord!” their smile widens at the telltale widening of Palm’s eyes, “Usually, I wouldn’t let _anyone_ call me by my name, but you’re pretty enough!”

Palm’s brows furrow at Neferpitou’s tone. They didn’t seem like a royal guard, much less the head of them – not with their clothes, or their voice, or their face. They seemed too childish, too excitable to merely be a guard of the Fire Lord’s, a bright contrast to the dark, edgy royal guards she had come across with whenever she had visited the Fire Nation. Neferpitou was neither dark nor daunting, but they had a halo of concealed demons around themselves – _that_ , Palm could see as clear as crystal. She could see it beyond the ruby irises of Neferpitou’s eyes – almost the same shade as Bisky’s, but rosier, brighter. A glint glimmered in their rosy eyes, something akin to a protective mother’s piercing gaze. A warning, but also an invitation.

“Well…” they say, tilting their head expectantly, blinking.

“Well, what?” Palm says, huffing as she crosses her arms.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell your name?” they say in a huff, mirroring Palm’s position, their voice nearly a whine, “I told you _mine._ ”

Palm feels echoes of laughter bubbling in the middle of her throat, and she sucks in a breath, licking over her chapped lips. This – all of _this_ – felt like a fever dream, and Palm _desperately_ wishes it was. She wanted to run from here – from whatever mess she’s been dragged in – and to Gon, to Bisky, to what she _knew._

Instead, she laughs drily, shaking her head. “It’s Palm,” she says, leaning against the wall.

They brighten up like an ecstatic child, and they open their mouth to speak a response, but voices call from the other side of the hall. Neferpitou’s attention is easily stolen, and Palm takes this chance to break herself free from the constricting space between the wall and Neferpitou’s body – whom, apparently, had no sense of respectable bodily distances. This must be Neferpitou’s companions – a tall blonde with irritable eyes, but an alluring gaze, and a woman stands beside him, several inches shorter, eyes kind, kinder than Neferpitou’s and the blonde’s, and she reminders Palm of a wilting rose, a flower losing its myriad of reds and pinks to graying petals, a spring palette inevitably fading into winter’s.

“Pouf! Blythe!” they say, waving their hands around as if her companions stood a few miles away, eagerly pointing to Palm’s figure, “She’s awake!”

The blonde – Pouf, she supposes – only sneers, a too bitter expression on such a pretty face. “Yes, Pitou, we had that summed up the moment you ran to her,” he says, eyes squinted, and Palm clenches her fists when their gazes meet – fire against fire, but neither is willing to yield, “The better question is who are _you_?”

It’s almost laughable – the parallels of life – but Palm only scowls, and her hands itch to press the blonde’s pressure points, to see him fall over his own body like a mere ragdoll, outrage and fury embedded in his features. “I don’t see why you should care,” she says, and she knows Neferpitou’s surprised at her sudden display of hostility and guardedness – something she had hardly bothered to show them. To them, Palm had given in easily, and hardly put up a fight – but she _didn’t_ like the blonde, and first impressions always impacted on her opinions on certain things. The blonde, however, didn’t do anything too cruel to distort Palm’s view of him, but there was _something_ , a burning grasp from her gut, about the blonde. She knew she had to tread lightly around him, unknowing of what awaited her between these metal walls.

“Because _you_ are interfering with what we’re here for,” the blonde says, glaring.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” she retorts.

“Really?” Neferpitou asks, head tilted in a mocking innocence, “You would rather die out in the sea?”

Palm sighs, and she already feels the beginnings of an all-too-familiar headache. “No,” she answers simply, easily, knowing it wasn’t the time for riddles hinted with the subtle truth, “Of course, not. While I’m grateful that you cared enough to rescue me, I have somewhere else to be, something else to do,” she nearly grins at the falter of Pouf’s posture and the creasing of Neferpitou’s brows – a small victory, but a victory, nonetheless, to catch them off-guard, even it’s just for a fraction of a moment, hardly lasting, “You aren’t the only ones who were sent here to accomplish someone else’s orders, you know.”

She’s revealing too much to strangers, but too little for them to pick out the situation.

She just needs to find her way out of here, and she knows that none of them – save, perhaps, the silent lady who has hardly spoken a word – are willing to let her go easily. Neferpitou had kept her for a reason, a reason of selfishness than shallowness, and Palm intends to find out what they have in stored for her.

“Oh, really?” Neferpitou says, smiling, “How interesting, Palm,” they lean up closer to her, slithers noiselessly like a snake, “Care to tell us more?”

“No, actually, not really,” she says, curt, ignoring Pouf’s trailing gaze, watching her every movements – too knowing, too perceptive, “I would rather not,” she says, and tilts her head to meet Pouf’s gaze, nails digging crescents into her palms, “What I’d rather you all do, however, is to let me go.”

Pouf snickers. “Let you go?” he shakes his head, “We never kept you.”

“ _Well_ ,” comes in Neferpitou’s slow, teasing drawl, and Palm forces her eyes shut, regretting the moment she had decided to speak up, “Now, we will. I think you’ll be a fun companion, you know!”

“How _kind_ of you,” Palm says through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing into crescents as Neferpitou’s grin broadens – a feline sort of smile, and Palm feels winded at the familiarity that washes over her at the sight of Neferpitou. Pale skin, white hair, catlike.

 _Zoldyck_ , she realizes, breath stolen as she continues to gaze down on Neferpitou, _who could be burning right this very moment._

* * *

Gon had surprised himself – in more ways than one, actually.

The very first had been how he’d managed to carry both his weight and Zoldyck’s far enough to reach the shore, and he still remembers the breathy exhale that he had breathed out upon the sight of the island – an oasis in the wasteland. His limbs still ached – a lingering throb that Gon couldn’t merely shrug off his shoulders – and he found himself too tired to try to navigate the island with Zoldyck still passed out, opting to wait for him to wake up. Gon had been consumed by his own thoughts, and the sound of the shore reaching up to the sand, and Zoldyck’s snores beside him, by then. He could have gotten what he wanted at Zoldyck’s state, he supposed – wake him up to searing pain from Gon’s fingertips, watch him struggle helplessly against the chains and the flames, body too tired to conceal and defend himself from the pain his fire had brought.

He could have, but he didn’t – and that had been the most surprising of all.

He was always starving – starving to satiate the overwhelming hunger inside him, but not exactly for food, no, and he always moved to his own accord, trusted what he felt, and relied on what the voice inside his head had wanted – but, at that time, at those certain moments, where Zoldyck was rendered helpless by the fatigue, Gon _wasn’t._ The need to burn Zoldyck’s pale skin, the ache to have Zoldyck under his mercy, the desire to coax the answers from Zoldyck’s throat with his mere fingertips – it hadn’t _burned._ It hadn’t set a consuming fire all over him, nor did it cloud his vision to blinding blankness, merely tending to his own wants, uncaring of what the others had to say, and Gon _longed_ for that feeling again, to be caught up in the flames that he forgets his own body – Zoldyck, the sight of Zoldyck, the sound of Zoldyck, had always brought that out in him, brought it out like a trickster would a flower out of his hat, but, at those moments during a quiet dawn and an even quieter dusk, everything else had been _blank._ Numbingly blank.

He squints his eyes, and he settles against the back of a tree, chest heaving with a sigh. He knows Zoldyck is lingering only a few steps away from him, but he doesn’t try to steal another glance – Zoldyck wouldn’t leave, not with those chains clasped to his hands like a lifeline, and even if he _did_ , he had nowhere to go. He would still come back to Gon all the same, and Gon wouldn’t want to tire himself further by worrying incessantly about Zoldyck’s antics.

He needed sleep – to clear his head, to forget his thoughts. That was all this was – fatigue. Fatigue from the swim, and fatigue from walking, and fatigue from it all.

Gon only needed to freshen his mind.

The fire still brewed from inside the confines of his souls, stuck between his bones, the numbness of his muscles locking it in, and Gon knew this was merely the aftereffects of a shipwreck. The fire would ignite to all its glory – as it was once had before, and as it will once more – and, this time, no one else would be able to restrain him from setting fire to the residual ashes.

Perhaps, it wasn’t only the fatigue that plagued him.

He still remembers the echo of Bisky’s words, pleading him to stop in his steps and rethink what he was to do, yelling that they needed to do something, that they still had a bone to pick with Zoldyck, and whatever it was that Bisky meant to do, Gon knew he was in the way – his hunger to burn the pale crevasses of Zoldyck’s skin, rather, and, Gon supposed, he felt _guilty._ When everything else is uncertain, when their destinies meet at crossroads, clashing against one another, Gon needed something to steady him on the ground, and he promised to himself he wouldn’t touch Zoldyck – not until he would find his friends, not until they leave this forsaken island.

It was good enough of a promise. Enough to keep him on his toes.

He closes his eyes, his eyelids too heavy of a weight to keep open, and surrenders himself to familiar tides of sleep pulling him into an embrace, a sole thought echoing in the dark banks of his mind.

 _We need to move first thing in the morning_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello folks do you remember what illumi wore in the phantom rogue ? well thats exactly what he's wearing here god why is he so sexy i am weak
> 
> but anyway thank u so much 4 reading!! hope u enjoyed!!<33


	10. nemo dat quod non habet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **nemo dat quad non habet,** _no one gives what they do not have_

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star,_ a faded tune – one from his childhood, he thinks – rings in his head as he watches the starry night fade slowly fade into a soft dawn, gentle hues of pinks and purples and yellows blending into the sweet color of the morning, the stars that had once dotted the dark sky evanescing as sunlight filters throughout the sky, the morning glow bouncing from the clouds to the sea to the land, _how I wonder what you are._

Mornings like this had always made the world a little more bearable for Killua, and its beauty reminds him that, sometimes, when everything else is quiet around him, the world can be soft, too – the trees and the flowers and the lakes, coruscating under the quiet dew of daybreak, but it is an illusion as much as it is a reminder, he knows. His muscles are stiff from sleeping against a tree bark, but Killua ignores the lingering ache in his body, and focuses, instead, on the serene beauty of nature – watches the birds fly over him as they sing their wordless song, and the leaves rustle under the mellow wind, and the little critters in the crooks of the forest, and it’s _beautiful._ For a long moment, stretching the hours between, Killua lets himself sit in the quiet, and ignores the heavy presence snoring across him. A foolish part of him – _the dreamer_ , Illumi likes to call it – wishes he could stay here, frozen in time, watching the evergreens shine under the sunlight, the untouched, unsullied part of the world.

But he can’t, and the sound of a shuffling body reminds him as much. Killua stiffens, and the illusion of his soft world crumbles into pieces. The voice in his head tells him of his mistake as he watches Gon wake up from his sleep – _you had your chance to run_ , it says, tutting, and Killua grits his teeth. He had his reasons, this time. _Sensible_ reasons, anyways.

It would have been a pointless attempt to try to outrun Gon, and Killua had thought this over several times. They were on a small, nameless island in the middle of the sea, and the chances of a ship passing by, much less _noticing_ , the island were small – and Killua didn’t rely on _chances_ , or luck, or the throw of a dice.

Prolonging the process was his original plan, after all.

There is silence when Gon turns his head to meet his eyes, a heavy silence that weighed on both their shoulders, and Killua is the one who decides to break it, nails digging into whatever it can – a nervous habit Killua had never gotten rid of, no matter how much his mother had scolded him for it. “Took you long enough,” he says, voice bitter and sharp.

Gon’s brows furrow. “How long have you been awake?”

“Why should you care?” Killua huffs out, but he answers, anyways, rolling his eyes, “Obviously, far longer than you have.”

“You could have killed me while I was asleep,” Gon says, shoulders shrugging, standing from his position against the tree, “How, I don’t know, but you’re the assassin here – you could’ve found a way,” he tilts his head, stares at Killua, “So, why didn’t you?” Gon walks closer to him, and Killua clenches his jaw, “Is it because you’ve depended on your bloodbending so much that, without it, you’re useless? Without your bloodbending, you have no idea what to do, do you? Because bloodbending is all you can do, and without it, you’re nothing.”

And, suddenly, this image of Gon – scowling, brows knitted, like an angry dog – fades into the image of Gon from the snow festival – something Killua had hidden in the back of his mind, but had never forgotten. Tousled hair from all the dancing, eyes hazy but still smiling, and his movements slurred by the alcohol – and the ghost of his touch still haunts Killua’s skin, and the echo of his words still whisper in his ears, and Killua _should_ stop it. He should stop reliving the same night over and over – not when it’s already been ripped out of his hands, not when the dagger’s been stabbed and removed – but there’s another part in Killua. The part that aches for something it should not, the part that reaches for something out of reach, the part that _dreams_ while it lives.

 _The dreamer_ , a voice says, but it’s a different voice this time, and it doesn’t crawl on his skin the way the other voice does. This voice sounds like petrichor, and soft hues, and cloudy eyes. Killua leans in, breathes in the voice like he does air, but he doesn’t listen. He indulges himself, sometimes, when sleep is not a choice, but he never listens to it, never agrees with what this voice says – because while this voice is stuck on the lines of could-haves, and what-ifs, and maybes, the other voice is already drawing the lines of this-wills, and you-wills, and they-wills. While this voice is tiptoeing on the edge of a cloudy cliff, the other voice is already jumping in. While this voice distracts him, the other voice reminds him.

The dreamer thinks of Gon from that night, and the other reminds him of Gon from today. Killua feels as though he were cross-eyed – everything else tearing into two, and his head dizzying – and the dreamer whispers something, while the other shouts. Killua doesn’t know who to listen.

 _To me_ , says the other.

 _To you_ , says the dreamer.

Killua breathes in, and he decides, and it’s easy – a moment of clarity, finally.

Gon is only one person – but whomever he chooses to be right now, that’s how Killua will see him as – not for what he said, not for what he did, but for what he _is_. Words wither with time, and hoping is only a heartache – there is no point in reminiscing what had passed, or wondering what could pass, or dreaming of what would pass. Hoping for change would only prove to be fruitless, and getting his head stuck in the clouds won’t help him get out of here.

He clenches his teeth, but soon he shows them through a wide smirk. “Careful with your words, _Gon_ ,” he drawls, back scraping against the tree as he forces himself to stand, ignoring the dry pain clawing on the skin of his back through the thin fabric of his shirt, “Remember that it’s _my_ bloodbending that killed your pathetic excuse of a father.”

Gon tenses, but his words aren’t enough to tip him over, apparently – rather, a triumphant smile spreads across his face. “Ah,” he says, walking even closer, and that’s when Killua realizes his mistake, “So, you finally believe the Avatar’s my father, then?”

“Of course,” Killua replies easily, “The resemblance is uncanny, you know,” and he pauses to smirk at the falter of Gon’s movements – a stutter in his steps, the twitch in his brows, the look in his eyes, “Yeah, you’re both selfish fucking assholes who can’t, for the love of the fucking gods, can’t think of anyone but themselves. Selfish, _pathetic_ pieces of shit –”

A bush of fire bursts before him, and the heat of the flames tickle his skin, barely touching him. Killua blinks slowly, swallowing the lump down his throat, and the sensation that runs down his spine is alike to the one after you had nearly fallen off a cliff – your tiptoes hanging by the edge of the cliff, and you feel the weight of your body weighing you down, and you prepare yourself for the inevitable fall, heart pounding in your ears as memories of your life replay in your mind, until suddenly, by some miraculous force, you find yourself tipped backwards, and the whole world slows down. Rethink the moments, consider what could have been, and repeat. Until your heart stops pounding, until your skin stops sweating. Until you’re relieved enough.

Killua doesn’t do that, though. Some rules were meant to be followed, but some rules were meant to be defied – it’s only up to Killua to decide, of course.

He steps closer to Gon, close enough that their bodies touch, close enough that, if Gon lost control once more, the flames would be able to pierce through his skin, and he grins broadly. “There’s the big, bad wolf,” he says, “There’s this rumor about the Avatar – about his lover,” his grin widens when Gon grips his arm tightly, hard enough to bruise, “Have you heard of it?”

Gon grunts, tightens his grip, but he makes no effort to stop Killua, to stop him from talking, and it’s another moment of clarity, a moment where his mistake is made clear – Gon’s weakness hadn’t been his friends, far from that, actually. Certainly, Gon had adored his friends, treasured them like one would with a good book, but not enough that he would give up the gold spun in his hands from their own words, or pleads, or voices – because Gon was selfish, but there was something else. Something else that Gon had treasured – no, _listened_ to – above his friends, or his morals, or anything else in between.

Curiosity. The moon against the sun in an eclipse.

Killua had been a fool not to realize sooner, but now he knows. He knows, and that’s all that matters. That’s all that _should_ matter, and he’ll make sure of that. He will.

He’s reaching the ending of Gon’s book, and he’ll be the one smiling at the last chapter.

“You haven’t, but that’s alright – I’ll tell you, then,” he whispers against Gon’s ears, “They say the Avatar fell in love with a woman once. She was beautiful, apparently – the jewel of the Fire Nation,” he feels Gon tense against him, muscles stiffening, and Killua can’t help his victorious smile, “She was enamored with the Avatar, told him she was going to follow him wherever he went. The Avatar liked that – liked the attention, even for just a quick moment – and he wanted to parade her around. He wanted to show to the whole world who he had in his hands. Many called her the most beautiful woman in the world, and everybody wanted her. Not because they loved her, no, but because she was as good as gold,” he pauses, “But even gold tarnished with time.”

“And?” Gon asks, but there isn’t any hostility to his voice, unlike before, unlike anytime he had talked to Killua. It was curious, his voice, and in wonderment, as if Killua were telling him the tale of how the world came to be to a child – unknowing of the world’s crooks and tunnels, but desperate to navigate their way through them.

“And the Avatar realized that,” Killua says, a falter in his voice, a stutter in his chest, and he only hopes Gon wouldn’t notice, “He was the Avatar, and she was just some woman. He was the Avatar, and she was just some woman who would wear him down. It didn’t matter if she was the most beautiful or if she loved him more than she did herself. What mattered was that _he_ was the Avatar, and she would only hold him back,” he pauses to calm himself down, unable to push away the anger that gnaws on his chest from his own words, “So, he left her.”

“Just like that?”

Killua inhales, sharp. “Just like that,” his eyes flicker to meet Gon’s – something akin to rage smoldering in his eyes, “You still don’t see it? He’s not worth it all _this_ –”

And the cord is cut open with a blunt knife, a snapping sound in the air, just like that.

Gon slams him against the tree, his back pressed up against the rough bark, and Killua grunts lowly at the impact. “ _You_ –” he growls, breaths heavy and hot against Killua’s skin, “­­­­­­– don’t get to tell _me_ what’s worth it or what’s not.”

Killua snarls, but his pale cheeks flush at the proximity. “I’m telling you the _truth_ ,” he bites back, “If you don’t want to believe me, then that’s not my fucking problem!”

“You don’t get to say that,” Gon says, eyes ablaze – and, if he could burn him through his gaze alone, Killua is certain he’d be rotting into a pile of ash down the ground, “You’re the _one_ who killed him for a million gold pieces! It’s your fault that the Avatar is gone!” he pauses to catch his breath, his other hand gripping his shoulder, “It’s not just my father you took away, _Killua._ You killed the all the past Avatars, and you stole away everything they died for – and, all of that, for fucking _money._ ”

“I did what I was told,” Killua grits out, “I didn’t do it for the money, Gon. I did it because they told me to.”

Killua inwardly winces at his own words. He wasn’t some innocent child back then, and he certainly isn’t now. He had known the consequences that would unravel from what he would do – his family made certain to show him _that_ – and he had accepted them readily.

 _Prolong and fluster, Killua_ , the voice says, _don’t let your feelings get in the way. You already what would happen if you do._

“Do you really think…” Gon’s words are slow, but his breathing is heavy, “…that excuses _what you did_?”

“You think I’m saying _this_ to earn your fucking pity?” Killua says, teeth gritted and tone tight, “I told you before, Gon – I’m telling you the truth, and the truth only.”

The lie leaves a scratchy taste in his mouth, and Killua wants to spit it out.

Gon leans closer, _impossibly_ close, and his lips brush against the shell of Killua’s ear. “You know what I think, Killua?” he says, whispering, “I think you’re _lying_.”

Killua glowers, letting out a guttural groan, head thudding against the bark of the tree, and, with the last of his strength, pushes Gon off him with his torso. “See, this is the problem!” he yells, face contorted with frustration, and his fingers itch with the desire to bury themselves in his hair, twist and pull the strands until his scalp bleeds from his nails, “How _the fuck_ do you expect to get answers from me if you don’t trust me? What the hell is the fucking _point_? What, were you planning to burn me until you heard what you wanted?” he glares at Gon, sneering, “Is that your version of the truth? Hearing what you want? Do you want me to plead for your forgiveness, or repent for what I’ve done to your dear old daddy, or act like I was sorry for killing him?” he laughs bitterly, disbelief clear in his laughter, at the way Gon’s eyes shine with interest, “If that’s what you want, Freecss, then I’m afraid you’re never going to get it.”

Gon only hums, eyes raking over Killua with a careful thoughtfulness – unlike what Killua had seen in his eyes before, unlike the consuming rage that had seethed in the pits of his golden eyes. “You want me to trust you?” he says, slowly blinking, waiting for Killua’s response.

Killua rolls his eyes. “It’s the only way _this_ would work.”

“Then, make me trust you,” Gon says easily, as if he were asking for a piece of candy.

Killua huffs through his nose, and his head _hurts._ “You’d lose your mind,” he says, reiterating Gon’s words from a few nights ago – when cold metal was pressed against his skin, and his body ached with the fading touch of flames, and the sound of waves played a dull lullaby in the background.

“Then, so be it,” says Gon, shrugging, turning to walk away.

“Trust is a two-way street,” Killua snaps out, leaning away from the tree to follow Gon’s steps, “You should know that.”

Gon looks at him for a brief moment, but this time, his gaze is gentle, his fiery ambers softened into shades of cocoa, warm and inviting – the look in his eyes alike to that night, when Killua had a mask over his face, when Killua had only been the half of himself.

“I do,” is all he says.

Killua stops in his steps, and he feels as though he were divided into two, cross-eyed once more, breath stuck in his chest as he stares at the fading silhouette of Gon.

 _He knows_ , the dreamer says.

 _He’s lying_ , the other says.

This time, there’s no moment of clarity.

* * *

Kurapika stares at the chains adorning his hands, cool metal against his skin like grappling grapevines, and he remembers how he, once, had despised the sight of metals – or anything, truly, anything that had been a remnant of his clan. Every time he had come across metals, or the color red, or a mere spider, his mind would dig out the memories he thought he had buried deep inside his mind – the gruesome sight of his clan slaughtered, their sockets eyeless, and the foul smell of blood that Kurapika could never wash away from his memories. He had scrubbed his skin until it bled, tried to erase any shred of that night in desperate attempts – the blood, the eyes, the smell. He had despised his own reflection – hated how his hair was the same shade as his mother’s, how his hands once held Pairo’s hands, how the top of his head was once kissed by his father.

He traces the chains under his other hand, the metals cold against his fingers. It’s been a long time since the massacre of the Kurta clan – more than a decade, he’s certain of that – but the scars are still sheathed deep into his chest, and the memories terrorize his mind whenever he finds himself too happy. He can’t allow himself to be too happy, not when he hasn’t avenged his clan, not when their eyes are still being sold in various black markets.

He lets out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d nearly died after the shipwreck, and he isn’t too sure if he’s willing to take any more chances. He _knows_ he had promised the others that he would aid them with the hunt with his metalbending, but, now that they’ve got Zoldyck in their grasp, would they still need Kurapika’s help? The seal was, most likely, lost at sea, and Kurapika would gain no purpose in furthering his involvement in the hunt. The seal had been the only reason Kurapika extended his help to the group, and he planned on borrowing it from them after they had finished the hunt. He was willing to delay his own mission to help Gon’s, but he isn’t too certain of that, anymore. He had wasted too much time trying to capture Zoldyck – certainly, he had harnessed his own skills along the way – but to even waste more? To sit idly on this ship until they’ve located the rest, when he could be going on his own way, locating his clan’s eyes, instead?

He leans against the chair, crossing his legs as he closes his eyes, one thought perturbing his head at the prospect of abandoning the hunt.

_How would I tell them?_

He gulps.

_Would I even tell them?_

A knock on the door, and his eyes slowly flutter open. “Come in,” he says.

His shoulder sag with relief when Melody comes inside the room. He isn’t too sure if he could face Leorio right now, not after all he had thought of them, not after he had thought of abandoning _him._ No one could fault him for it, of course, but guilt continuously gnawed on Kurapika’s chest, and it would only amplify with the sight of Leorio – warm eyes, and an even warmer smile.

Kurapika knows he couldn’t stand that, and his thoughts would only be clouded with unwanted guilt. He doesn’t need that – not right now, no.

“Are you alright?” comes in Melody’s voice – soothing like gentle waves, softly washing over Kurapika’s senses, and his racing thoughts slow to a halt, and his chest loosens from tension, “You seem distressed.”

He smiles softly at the genuine concern that tints Melody’s voice. Melody, a short, pudgy woman, had been graciously kind to them, ever since she’s found them drifting afloat across the ocean, both their skins numbingly pale, and she had nursed them both to health – of course, that had only taken barely a day, with only a few dabs of cloths drenched in warm water, but Kurapika was grateful, nonetheless. He had already accepted his death when his arms gave out under him, but he couldn’t, in those short moments of consciousness, erase away the feeling of regret – regret that he wouldn’t die avenging whatever was left of his clan, regret that he wouldn’t be able to make the Phantom Troupe pay from what they’ve done, regret with the knowledge that the scarlet eyes were still being sold illegally somewhere out there, and he’d hardly done anything to stop it. Death is never gracious, of course, and it is never fitting. It’s dirty and quick, or slow and steady, but never beautiful. Never wonderful, never graceful, but it’s all Kurapika had been aching for – the moment he had seen his clan dead on the ground, he knew nothing else could comfort the stinging pain in his chest, but the warm embrace of nothingness. To be one with the ground, to be one with his clan.

But, not now. He still has work to do, and he can’t lose what he has to death yet. Not yet.

“I was just thinking,” Kurapika assures her, “I can’t thank you enough, you know. We – Leorio and I – are truly grateful for your help, but we don’t know how long it would take to find the rest of our teammates. Our priority is, of course, Zoldyck, but he could be anywhere,” he gulps, “They could be anywhere.”

Kurapika had trusted Melody enough to tell her their intentions, their participation in the hunt, and who they had in their grasp. He knew Melody wouldn’t try to steal Zoldyck from them, not when she herself had a mission – a hunt, more like – to complete.

“That is true,” Melody says, and her voice easily tames the doubts creeping into his thoughts, “But there are only a few islands that surround the Northern Water Tribe. Actually, we’re sailing to the island closest to where your ship had sunk – surely, some of your friends must have ended up there,” she pauses, and, suddenly, there’s a careful lilt in her voice as she speaks, “How are you so sure they are still alive, anyways? It’s not my intention to frighten you, no, but…” she breathes in, staring at the open window of the room, the sound of the waves washing over one another clear in the air, “The ocean is a vast, beautiful thing, but it is not always kind.”

“Of course,” Kurapika says, nodding, “But, they survived Killua Zoldyck. A shipwreck pales in comparison to that.”

Melody laughs, a mellifluous sound, gentle to the ears. “Killua Zoldyck is only a person,” she says, amusement twinkling in her eyes at Kurapika’s reaction – eyes widening in disbelief, lips pursing in disagreement.

“Yes, a person who could kill you as easy as he breathes,” Kurapika counters, “He killed the Avatar himself, Melody. It is not so wise to underestimate him.”

“I’m not underestimating him, Kurapika,” she says calmly, taking a seat on the chair beside him, averting her gaze to stare pointedly at Kurapika, “You, however, are underestimating the ocean.”

Kurapika hums, but he offers no retort to Melody’s jab, mood suddenly dampened. “I’m worried about Leorio,” he confesses, hesitant, nibbling on his lower lip, “He’s been worrying himself sick over Gon, and…” Kurapika trails off, tries to pick out the proper words from the clutter of his mind, images of Leorio – with teary eyes, begging to the spirits to let his friends survive the shipwreck, lips quivering – invade his thoughts, and his chest clenches with a nameless feeling, as though darts were suddenly shot up against his flesh, “He hasn’t been himself, and I…”

Kurapika chokes over his words, and he bites himself, stopping himself from saying anything too… _embarrassing_ – well, embarrassing to his standards, at the least. Melody and Leorio, he notes mournfully, were happily open in their affections – of course, Melody had been subtler, considering she’s only met them a few days ago, but Leorio is nearly intolerable, mushy in ways Kurapika had never expected of him. Leorio had stricken him as an uproarious man, even with people who held the highest of titles, but under his raucous exterior, a soft soul was hidden – perhaps, _reserved_ was a better term for it – in the dark, and an even softer heart beating against his ribcage. Kurapika smiles when he remembers the unofficial game between him and Leorio – a game to see who would make the other flustered first. Kurapika hardly lost, of course, and had always kept his composure in check, but Leorio had been too easy – always reddened with the smallest of teases, or genuine compliments, or both, as if he were not used to them.

Kurapika frowns at that. Leorio – a soul too caring for this careless world – _should_ be used to receiving what he gave.

“…really am worried for him,” Kurapika finishes lamely, shaking his head at his own words, knowing they hardly held a candlelight to what he truly meant.

Melody smiles, soft and knowing, and Kurapika squirms, feeling naked under her gaze – one akin to Bisky’s, if he were honest, but gentler. “You really care for him, don’t you?” she says, but it isn’t a question.

Kurapika answers, anyways. “Yes,” he says, “I really do.”

“You two make a good couple, you know,” Melody says, and Kurapika freezes in his chair, breath stolen at her words, “It’s truly sweet that you two –”

That’s all Kurapika can take, and his skin flushes brightly – for a quick moment, he’s grateful that Leorio isn’t here to accompany them, knowing that _he_ would burst in an explosion of poorly-contained emotions. “W-we’re…” Kurapika breathes slowly, tries to compose himself from the shock, and tries to regain control over his sputtered words, clearing his throat as he straightens his back, “We’re not a couple, Melody. Just, er, friends.”

Melody’s brows raise in shock – an unlikely sight, really, and that only makes Kurapika flush deeper. “Really?” she says, humming, “I would have never guessed.”

Another knock on the door, and Kurapika retracts his statement – he would _gladly_ accept the embrace of death, actually. Right now was the preferable time, of course, and so he wouldn’t need to face this embarrassment.

“Leorio!” Melody greets happily, smiling, “I assume you’re feeling better, now?”

Kurapika wants to bury himself down the ground at the glance Leorio sends him – so _achingly_ concerned, and genuine, and _gods._ He holds Leorio’s gaze, heat gathering in his cheeks, feels as though they would burst with how warm they were, before he reverts his eyes to stare at the open window, the sky brightly blue. In his periphery, he sees the soft – _painfully_ so – smile Leorio directs to him.

 _You two make a good couple_ , her words tirelessly echo in his mind, and he wants the ground to swallow him whole. He doesn’t need _this._ Not now, not ever.

“Yeah, I am,” Leorio says, brows furrowing when he turns to look at Kurapika, tilting his head, “Why’s Kurapika all red in the face?”

Melody’s smile widens. “Oh, I misread –”

“Melody,” Kurapika cuts in, knowing he could never bear the look on Leorio’s face if he found out what Kurapika was getting flustered over, “I was just shocked. That’s all.”

“Shocked over what?” Leorio continues to poke, leaning against the wall, and Kurapika wills himself _not_ to stare at his absurdly broad shoulders against the thin fabric of his clothes. He breathes slowly, and tries to gather his thoughts, trying to stop himself from ogling at Leorio’s lean figure, and strong shoulders, and –

– _damn it, Melody_ , he curses in his head.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Kurapika says, tight, “It’s nothing,” he rolls his eyes at the overly-concerned look Leorio sends his way, “Would you just _stop_ pressing on? It’s nothing. Gods.”

Leorio’s brows crease, and he frowns. “Hey, no need to be damn rude,” Leorio snaps, “What’s got you all hot, anyway? You look like you have a fever,” his lips purse, and he walks closer to Kurapika, pressing his hand against his forehead, brows raising, “You’re awfully warm.”

Kurapika groans, and he quickly bats Leorio’s hand away from his forehead, but his face is still flushed scarlet. “Leorio, I swear to the gods –” Kurapika threatens, glowering when Leorio tries to press his hand against his head once more.

“ _What_?” Leorio exclaims indignantly, spluttering, “I’m just concerned for –”

“Well, I don’t need it!”

Leorio slams his fist against the wood of his chair, and pulls Kurapika up against him with his hands. “What the _hell_ is up your ass to make you act like this? You’re always so damn _angry_! I’m just fucking concerned, damn you –”

Someone clears their throat behind them – _Melody_ , Kurapika’s mind faintly notes, but his mind lingers far too long on the sensation of Leorio’s breaths against his skin, warm and heavy. “I should take my leave,” Melody stands from her chair, walking with a fast pace, too fast to let Kurapika gather his thoughts and protest against her departure, “Don’t destroy anything. Please.”

The door shuts close, and Leorio release him, chest heaving with a breath.

“I didn’t mean to snap –”

“I guess I’m sorry –”

It’s only a coincidence that they both gather enough composure to talk without yelling, and Kurapika lets out a breath stuck in his throat, the air suddenly easier to breathe in.

Leorio gestures him to speak first. “You didn’t deserve that,” Kurapika says, apologetic, “I’m sorry. I just… I truly didn’t want to keep on talking about –” his face pinches as he tries to search for the right word, “– well, _that._ ”

Leorio laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry for pushing, too,” he says, sitting on the chair beside his, a contented smile on his face.

Kurapika sits back on his chair, their arms touching at the closeness of the chairs, and an easy smile plays on Kurapika’s lips, back tickling with the heat of Leorio’s lingering gaze.

 _I recant my statement_ , he thinks, _it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I_ wanted _this._

* * *

The bright morning that had once burst with beams of light flickering against the tropical colors of the islands, soon enough, faster than Gon could fathom, softened into a lazy afternoon with halcyon tones of orange and yellows painted unto the sky, the sunlight dimming, merely a candlelight to what was once a forest fire. Gon loved mornings, of course – he was a firebender, and that was a given, considering how firebenders had rose with the sun, as waterbenders danced with the moon – but there is a wonder in watching the inferno fade into moonlight, not as encompassing as the sun, but still so beautiful.

Gon leans further against the tree, and he desperately wishes he could stay here, the world’s worries forgotten in the calm haze of his mind. But, as he continues to rest against the rough tree, he sees Killua – he had decided on a whim that, if they were to earn each other’s _trust_ , calling him by his first name would be the first step – walking aimlessly in circles. Killua had been the one to suggest for a break earlier, and Gon easily agreed, stomach grumbling with hunger – they ate nothing but poorly-opened coconuts – and legs aching with fatigue.

It seemed, though, that he was taking too long.

Gon pulls himself off from the tree with a grunt, yawns into the palms of his hands, and continues to walk down the path of the forest, leavened with short trees and auroral flowers, ignoring Killua’s sputtered-out insults at his sudden leave. In all honesty, he had no idea what exactly he was searching for in this island – maybe, some woods to build a ship, but that would take too much time, and he hardly had any handyman skills – but he hoped there would be someone, some people, in this island. People who were willing to help, people who had the materials they needed. That’s all Gon needed to find in this island, and that’s all Gon would search for, he decides. The food, the water, sleep – all those could wait. They needed to find a way out of this island first.

That was his priority.

“Hey, dumbass!”

He sighs. His second priority, at the moment, in this island, was keeping his promise: he wouldn’t touch Killua until he had found his friends.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Killua asks, brows furrowed as he meets Gon’s gaze, several steps behind him.

“No, of course, not,” Gon says, turning his head as he continues to walk, but not too fast to the point that the distance between them would be too wide for words to be exchanged, “But, I do know what I’m looking for!”

“Do you think that makes it any _better_?” Killua seethes behind him, running to catch up to his pace, “We can’t keep walking in circles around this stupid island to find what _you_ fucking want!”

Gon’s eyes twitch, but he manages to keep his calm, breathing in slowly through his nose. “We’re going to find it,” and it’s all he says to Killua, words brief, but tone firm.

“How the hell do _you_ know?” Killua counters back.

“Because I do,” Gon says simply.

Killua glares at him, and he fastens his pace – tries to outrun him, perhaps; in what, Gon doesn’t know – but Gon sees right through his movements, quickening his own steps. “You’re fucking crazy, you know,” Killua snaps out, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I know,” is all Gon says in response, deciding there was no time for any more heated arguments between them, knowing it would only delay them from finding their way out of this damned island. He hurries his steps, and with a raised, almost bemused, brow, watches Killua do the same. He realizes what Killua had intended to do, the latter nearly running with the pace of his steps, and, slowly, he smiles in amusement – one of the best ways to relieve himself from boredom; competition with yourself, or another person. Clearly, Killua wouldn’t announce this in blatant wording, but it’s even clearer that Killua refuses to let Gon outrun him, or fall behind once more. Gon can see Killua’s trying his hardest to remain steady on his feet without the support of his hands, and a wave of admiration – not for Killua, no, but his efforts – washes over Gon as he continues to watch him readily run aimlessly. Gon is running, too, but his attention is easily stolen by the sight of Killua.

Sweat shines on his porcelain skin, and he glows under the dimming light of the afternoon sun, seeming as though he were a painting of a scenery come to life, shades of vivid pastels mixing in with one another against the white of the canvas, and Gon’s certain it would take hundreds of shades of blue to perfectly capture the color of Killua’s eyes on a mere canvas – shimmered like the ocean under the sun’s heated gaze, glowed like gemstones carved into jewelry, teared up like fragile glass against ice. Strands of his silvery-white hair messily stick to his forehead, drenched in sweat, and his eyes are focused on the path before them, teeth gritted and gaze unwavering. He wonders, for a quick moment, if there was more to Killua – more than his bloodbending, more than his notoriety, more than Killua had shown him. If he had as many shades as his eyes – sometimes, his eyes were as violent as hurricanes, ruthless waves stuck in a graceless duel with one another, a relentless push and pull, lightning striking in the middle of the cloudy fog; but, at times, if he had looked at the right time, his eyes were as gentle as the morning ocean, the soft early sun glimmering against the slow waves, twin aquamarines staring right back at him. His eyes were too many shades to list individually, to define in one word, and Gon briefly wonders if Killua were like that, too, if he had contained as many multitudes as did his eyes.

His steps are loud against his ears, but the world is a blur to his eyes. The trees are passing movements, and the light only furthers to dim, but Killua – his _eyes_ – shines in front of him, bright and blue.

He feels himself drowning into another flood of his thoughts, but he freezes in his steps when he hears the faint sound of fire crackling.

He looks at Killua, and the same thought is written across his face.

_People._

Without one word said to the other, in astounding synchroneity, they both race to the end of the forest, sprinting, and Gon can hear blood pound in his ears in excitement. There were people in this island, and where there were people, there was hope – and, hopefully, the materials Gon had desperately needed to secure their way out of this damned island. It’s a wonder that it had only taken them a few days – when Gon had expected longer; perhaps, a week – to find people, and especially in an island that seemed too remote to be inhibited.

 _Thank you_ , Gon says in his head, knowing gratitude would only further their luck.

He pants as he abruptly stops in his steps, the sole of his shoes scraping against the ground, and his mouth is agape at the village laid before their eyes – brown houses jumbled together in a pattern, dozens of villagers wandering around the town, but an odd look lingering in their eyes as they note their presence, and fire lit on torches above them, hanging on barbed wires.

“Hello there, darlings,” Gon nearly flinches at the elderly woman, suddenly standing before them, and she laughs pleasantly at the perturbed look in both their faces, “Oh, sorry to frighten you, dearies. We just don’t get too many visitors in our little town, you know, and it was quite surprising to see new faces strolling about,” she smiles, warm and inviting, but it’s replaced by a frown when she notices their hardened gaze, “Are you two alright? You seem upset.”

Gon shakes his head, smiles brightly to assure the woman. “Ah, no,” he says, “But, er, we’ve been stuck on this island for how many days.”

“Oh, why is that?” the woman asks, concern clear in her voice.

Gon rubs the back of his neck, and his smile turns sheepish. “We came from a shipwreck, and we lost all contact with our friends, so…” he trails off, blinking through his lashes, trying to seem pitiful in front of the woman.

The woman gasps, horrified, and Gon nearly smiles. “My gods!” she says, gasping, “Do you two need anything – food, clothes, anything at all? You poor souls!”

Gon opens his mouth to answer, but Killua speaks, instead, voice scratchy. “Thank you, but really, right now, I think all we’d like is some rest,” his voice is a quiet, fragile thing against the lively chatter from the town, tone tired and words slurred, and Gon wonders if this was all some ploy to trick the woman, or if Killua was truly, genuinely exhausted to the bones. He doubted the latter, but his chest clenched all the same.

“Oh, of course,” the woman says, looking at them with _sickening_ pity, too consuming, “Our town, actually, has a house reserved for visitors like you, you know, and you’re both more than welcome to stay,” she smiles softly at the relief that crosses their faces, “Would you like me to lead you to it?”

They both nod eagerly, walking to follow the woman, but something presses against Gon’s thoughts. “Uhm, miss?” he says, hesitance clear in his tone.

“Yes, darling?”

“You said you hardly had any visitors, right?” Gon says.

The woman nods. “Yes, you’ve got that correct, sweetheart.”

“Well,” Gon pauses for a brief moment, clearing his throat, “Why would you have a house for visitors, then?” he sputters at the pointed look both Killua and the woman give him, quickly searching his mind for a statement to revoke what he insinuated, “Not that I’m less grateful!” he says in a rush, the words mixing into one, “We’re really, _really_ glad that we found people in this island, and kind people, too!” his shoulders sag with relief at the glee that shines in the woman’s eyes, “So, I guess I’m sorry if my question offended you.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” assures the woman, “It didn’t.”

 _She still didn’t answer my question_ , Gon notes with knitted brows, but his worries fade into nothing when he finds himself standing before a wooden house, alike to the rest of the village’s architecture, simplistic but functional, _I can worry about that tomorrow. Rest comes first._

The woman leads them inside the house, and gestures to a room. “Well, here you are,” she says, smiling kindly, “Do you need anything else?” they shake their head, and the woman nods, “If you do, you could just call me from my house – it’s only next door, don’t you worry!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Gon says before he opens the door to the room, and his mouth nearly waters at the sight of a bed – something he hadn’t slept on for a _long_ time. He lets go of the doorknob, and steps inside the room, taking in the sight fully – dim lights, white walls, new sheets. He lets out a breath, and he feels as though he had found an oasis in an encompassing wasteland. In their situation, he most probably had.

He nearly flinches at the rough sound of the door slamming, breaking the reverie of his thoughts.

He feels Killua stand beside him, scans the small room, and he raises his brows when Killua stiffens. “We…” his words are slow, hesitant, “…may have a problem.”

Gon scrunches his nose in confusion. “What?”

Killua breathes in, sharp. “How many are we?”

“Two…?”

“Okay,” Killua says slowly, nodding, “And how many are the beds?”

Gon looks at the bed, and his face visibly pales. “…one,” he struggles out.

They would need to _share._ The prospect sends a fuzzy feeling down his stomach, and Gon tries to chase it away with the reminder of who Killua Zoldyck truly was. It doesn’t work as much as hoped it would.

Killua breaks the silence between them with a snort. “Whatever,” he says, rolling his eyes, “I’ll just sleep on the floor. I’ve slept on worse, anyways.”

“No,” Gon says firmly, surprising himself.

Killua reels at that. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean, Killua,” he says easily, removing his shoes, leaving them at the edge of the room as he turns to walk to the bed, blocked by Killua’s body – eyes firm, gaze demanding, “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor. There’s enough space on the bed.”

Killua scoffs, shaking his head. “Why the hell are you acting all heroic, now?” he spits out, “And what the hell did I say about you calling me by that name?”

“What’s wrong with me calling you by _your_ name?”

“I think Zoldyck suited me just fine,” he says, venom clear in his words.

Gon sighs, patience running low with the knowledge of the bed only a few steps away from his reach. “ _Killua_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, every syllable pronounced, “You want us to trust each other, right? Well, calling each other by our first names would be the first step to that,” he pushes Killua out of the way, slips away his shirt with dried sweat over his head, throwing it aimlessly in some part of the room, and collapses on the mattress with a sigh, “It’s just one night,” he mutters sleepily, yawning, “This wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

He hears Killua huff. “What, so you’re alright with burning me, but you draw the line with me sleeping on the damn floor?” Gon mutters a sound of agreement, and Killua splutters, “What the _fuck_? I swear to the gods, you don’t make any fucking sense!”

“I don’t have to,” he says, and he feels the warm fingertips of sleep start to trace over his skin, soothing him, raising his head to meet Killua’s eyes briefly, “If you wanna sleep on the floor so _badly_ , then, do that. I’m just saying – why sleep on the floor when there’s a bed right in front of you?”

He yawns, and he presses his face against the pillow, the feeling of the warm fabric pressed against his skin is heavenly. His eyes slowly flutter close, soon gives up to the calming blankness of sleep.

His stomach flutters at the sudden weight on the other side of the bed, and he wills himself to ignore the feeling, to focus on the soft mattress underneath him, instead.

“There, you idiot,” he hears Killua say, scoffing, “I did what you want.”

Gon breathes slowly, eyes drooping, but the presence beside him too heavy to ignore.

 _It’s just one night_ , he reassures himself, _what else could happen?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's a slowburn without the one-bed scene cmon
> 
> but aaa tysm 4 reading!!<3


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